Breaking Their Wings
by another.creative.lover
Summary: /Madara x Mikoto x Fugaku/ Because God couldn't have his way, he had to break his Angels' wings. Companion fic to iSakura. Rated M for mature themes: sexual content, strong violence, and language.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Naruto. Or Darren Criss' _Don't You_. And by the way, if you want some music to listen to, I love _**Trading**_ _**Yesterday**_ and _**SafetySuit**_ (I listened to SafetySuit a lot while I wrote this).

**Summary**: Because God couldn't have his way, he had to break his angels' wings.

**Rated M for mature themes such as strong violence, religious themes, slight language, and sexual content.**

**Recommendation:** Throughout the story, I highly recommend that you listen to "Find a Way" by SafetySuit. Keep it on repeat.

**-xxx-**

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**b  
>r<br>**_.;:_**e**_:;._**  
>a<br>k  
>i<br>n  
>g<strong>

...

**t  
>h<br>**_.;:_**e**_:;._**  
>i<br>r**

…

**w  
><strong>_.;:_**i**_:;._**  
>n<br>g  
>s<strong>

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_by annee loves sasusaku_  
><strong>.: the complete story behind the isakura love triangle :.<br>**_madara_ : **mikoto **: fugaku

**-xxx-**

_In love, there is always a rivalry._

_ Everyone wants someone—the story always goes: he wanted her, she wanted him. And then, she starts to want another him._

_ Things like that start to sprout up. _

_ And when things like that sprout, it grows like a weed until it forms a shape with three sides—a triangle. _

_ It is the most common shape. _

_ And it is also the most deadly. _

The wielder of it sat, his large, omniscient-looking armchair standing tall as he held a book in his hand, a book that droned on about everything in love and an inkling of nothing. The two corners of his lips managed to twitch in an arrogant hint of his thoughts. What absolutely correct facts.

Triangles. _Love _triangles.

Madara knew it well, the philosophy. He was smart, handsome, a confident, swaggering man with smoldering eyes like black-brown lava that could stop any woman in her tracks with sexy, spiky raven locks to match. He played all women for fools, fucking them before he threw them out the next day; he played the philosophy, the idea of the triangle well, as if it were his own creation, finding a perfectly beautiful couple and slowly tearing it apart from the inside out.

He had been this way since his high school years.

Why?

Because.

(_It was __**fun**_.)

In all the love triangles that he had created, he always came out as "the winner"; they were all contests to him, to see who was the better man.

And of course, he knew, with that smug smirk on his face and the rich money under his belt, that he would always come out on top because, in his mind, he was a _god_—a demi-immortal who could do no wrong, whose feet everyone wanted to fall prostrate at, the one who killed criminals in the name of justice and created miracles with a snap of his fingers.

The man, looking fairly young even at _his_ age, standing up from the armchair to stare at the pattering rain outside, lost his smirk. The rain, the pattering, the noise made everything come back. He took in a deep breath as if he were trying to smell the rain through the glass barrier.

(_Memories…)_

It wasn't until he stumbled across a beautiful raven-haired angel when he found himself starting to struggle.

And in that struggle, he knew—deep in his heart, the truth covered in cobwebs of denial—that he couldn't win.

The man walked over to his bookshelf, one of many in his current room. He flicked a book randomly out of its slot with a quick work of strong fingers and grunted as he sat back down. All he could do was stare.

The Bible.

How ironic.

He shot another nostalgic stare at the window, mindlessly and wordlessly tracing a long, curved finger along the golden letters.

The rain did nothing to soothe the throbbing in his head. The throbbing of memories springing back to life. He put his head in his hands, working them vigorously against his temples in order to attempt to solve for the ache.

(_It ached, it _ached_…_

_ Make it stop. __**Make it stop**_. )

To Madara, his life—his _love_—was like the First Book of Genesis all over again.

God had **finally** met his Angel.

And his Angel _refused_ to follow him.

So God did what he could—he broke his Angel's wings and her followers', too.

And then, he threw them to a frightening place called Hell.

**-xxx-**

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_When _**a **boy _**sweeps**_ you _off_ your **feet**, he's in _the_ _**perfect**_ _position_ to **drop** you _on _your _**ass**_.

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**-xxx-**

Madara met _her_ when he was about a third year in high school.

He had come to school a little bit earlier that morning (which was, for him, five minutes before the bell that time), strolling out of his older brother's car that he had managed to jack for that day because he felt like he need a new ride. With his shades thrown over his ebony-brown eyes, he adjusted his school bag on his shoulder, loosening his tie before he managed to meet up with a girl—_girl number_ _15_, he knew her as. His arm was draped around the perky blonde that he had picked up during the middle of the school year. She was about his fifteenth girl that year, one of the only girls that he hadn't stolen away from a guy—so he thought that it was about time to take her away from her boyfriend.

And it was then, when he was walking down the steps, his arm still dangling off the prattling blonde's shoulders as he nodded absentmindedly to her chatter (silently wishing that she would just _shut the _fuck_**up**_), that someone bumped into his right side.

A flurry of books fell on the concrete steps and a stifled gasp caught in the person's throat.

He stiffened. Before Madara could raise his sunglasses, stare the prick down with dagger eyes and kick some of his stuff around some more—

"_Sumimasen gozaimasu_," said a quiet voice.

His eyes widened, quite substantially—a half a centimeter.

—he stopped.

And stared.

He managed to catch a hint of her face, only briefly seeing a flash of eyes and a creamy complexion, before she bent down, her long, thick black hair cascading past her face to obscure his vision, barely held up by a clip. His hungry eyes scarfed down the insane curves of her hips, the schoolgirl outfit accentuating her round bottom _heavily_, making it hard for him to breathe. When she stood back up, Madara found his eyes glued down at soft-looking, round breasts, hidden securely behind her uniform shirt, creamy legs, slender arms, and an oval-shaped face that held dark—no, _obsidian_—orbs with long, long eyelashes and small, petal-pink lips.

"Forgive me," she said again in that too-formal, quiet-firm voice. Her mouth didn't even seem to move. "I should have watched where I was going." The corners of her lips tilted up in a Mona-Lisa smile that sent shivers down Madara's spine. She bowed to him, a simple nod of her head. "Please excuse me dearly, _senpai_-s."

"Yeah, well, watch where you're going next time, Miss Skin and Bones." The sound of another girl's voice made Madara realize that the blonde girl was still next to him, leeching on his arm as she tried to stare down at the slightly taller other girl.

He didn't miss the way that the girl who called him _senpai_ stiffened and crease her lips even further in a hard attempt at a smile. "Excuse me," she repeated once more, cross stepping the couple as she started her stride down the hall, not caring that he had left the blonde (shrieking _terribly_, mind the entire school) by the steps and had come to follow her.

When she stopped at her locker to drop off her books, she gasped in surprise when she found him standing right beside her locker door just as she managed to slam it shut and twist the lock three times. "Oh," she said, still a little breathless, "hello again, _senpai_."

"Madara," he replied simply, holding out a hand to her. "No need to call me _senpai_; I doubt I'm a _senpai_ to you anyway."

She smiled (in the same stiff way that she did before, he noted), taking his hand with a confident one of her own, shaking his hand twice before she let go. "Mikoto _desu_," she told him. "I'm a first year here. It's a pleasure to meet you." She looked him over with quick eyes before she said, "And I doubt that you're a first year. You look more like a third year."

"Hn," he said, giving her his melt-you-good smirks as he leaned against a locker. "Good guess."

Before he could say anything else, he heard someone calling out his name.

He wanted to groan, pinch at the spot between his eyes. Why did _he _have to show up of all times?

A young man sprinted over to the two of them, panting viciously, practically bent over because of the pain he got from his running. His hair, unlike Madara's short spiky hair that barely hung over his eyes, was just a good lots of inches longer than his brother's length, managing to spike up vigorously despite the obvious attempt at gelling it down. His face was flushed from the run that he had (_damn Madara had to go and steal his car in the morning!_), his black eyes flooded with anger. (The student body around him shrunk away from this display when they saw flames above the young man's head.) When he managed to straighten up, his panting slowing to a bare minimum, he stared down at his younger brother and said, "Jesus, Madara, would you warn me before you take my car so that I can—"

"_Nii-san_, can't you see that I'm _busy_?"

Fugaku managed to snap his gaze over to the girl in front of his brother, his eyes narrowing at her before he brought his attention back to Madara. "You call flirting with girls _busy_?"

"It's not _flirting_, it's _researching_ the female race."

Fugaku snorted. "Whatever."

The sound of a soft, musical laughter cut off their brotherly bonding, turning their attentions to the petite-looking girl. She hid her giggle behind a small hand, trying to stifle herself when she noticed the two of them looking her way. She waved them off, still chuckling slightly. "You guys act _exactly_ alike," she told them when they glared at her questioningly. When she managed to get a hold of herself, she added, "That's so cute!" Not waiting another moment, she turned to the older brother, sticking out an amiable hand and giving him a bright smile.

She didn't realize how that smile made her glow.

"I'm Mikoto," she told him. "What's your name?"

She didn't notice the student body staring at the three of them, looking on in awe at the girl's act of friendship.

"Did you see that?"

"Yeah, the chick just _talked_ to him, like he was nothin' t'be scared of!"

"Oh, my God, he's probably going to bite her hand off."

Contrary to the rest of the student body, Fugaku didn't bite her hand off. Just as confidently as she had stuck out her hand to him, he took it, squeezing it as he kept her gaze. He didn't smile. "Fugaku. Uchiha Fugaku."

"Uchiha Fugaku, huh," she murmured, staring at him, taking in the firm state of his chin and the way that his strong gaze kept hers. His facial and body structure were stronger than his younger brother's, square and sharp yet utterly masculine. After a couple of minutes, she realized that she was still standing in the middle of the hallway, in the midst of passing period, holding a boy's hand. Tearing her hand away from his as if it were covered in fly guts, she resumed her emotionless mask, the mysterious smile back on her face. "Thank you for taking the time to introduce yourselves. I must be going now." With a quick bow, she turned around, not realizing that the two brothers kept their eyes on her, watching her every step.

The student body returned to the normal chattering and gossip.

And then, with a quick turn around the corner, she blended into the crowd, and was gone.

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I would _give up_ _everything_ for _**one moment**_ with you;  
>for <em><span><strong>one moment<strong>_ is better than a _**lifetime**_ of _not knowing you_.

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A couple of weeks passed since the brothers had first laid eyes on the mysterious girl.

Madara kept to his hobby—take one girl, break the other—all the while, keeping his thoughts on that seductive, raven-haired beauty that managed to entrance him and call at him eerily.

Fugaku, although he had seen the girl with his own eyes and thought that she was indeed very striking, decided to keep to his studies.

"Damn it all." The sound of a hard fist meeting wood echoed throughout the classroom as the lone, raven-haired figure cursed some more. Fugaku sighed, staring at the calculus work sheet that was bound to be due today. Normally he'd ace his tests in a snap… but this test, he wasn't so sure. How on earth could he do something he couldn't understand? '_I'm glad that Madara isn't here,_' he thought to himself, remembering the first time that he had asked Madara for help and had gotten a good teasing instead; Madara, although the younger, had always (and still did) thrive in school, a fact that the younger brother loved to flaunt over his older brother…

Lost in his thoughts, Fugaku didn't hear the door open—

"_Sumimasen gozaimasu_."

—but he managed to snap his head up at the intruder.

There she was.

A small, shy smile crept across her face. "Please excuse me," she said once more as she walked over to him. "I was just wondering if this was the calculus class."

At that, Fugaku raised an eyebrow. "You're in the calculus class?"

The girl—Mikoto, was it?—nodded. "_Hai_," she said almost hesitantly, "I am." She shifted uncomfortably as she stood under his dark stare. "Um… forgive me for asking so many questions, but do you also know where Jiraiya-sensei's class is? The English teacher?"

"I thought you were a first year," Fugaku said pointedly.

Mikoto sat down, chewing on her bottom lip.

Was this shy, uncomfortable-looking girl really the one he had met just weeks before?

He stared at her as she swallowed.

"I was," she said. Her shoulders slumped. "But the counselors decided that it would be better for me if I had advanced to the second year class."

"So you—"

"Yes," she said all too quickly. Her gaze snapped up to his in a fiery stand-off. "I skipped." Her jaw clenched, and her bottom lip began to quiver as she spoke. "Go ahead," she said—she didn't faze in her unrelenting glare. "Tease me. I dare you."

Moments ago, he was just thinking about telling this girl _exactly_ who she was talking to—but at her tone and her bright, emotion-filled face, he stopped himself. And let silence take him as he formulated the possibilities of why she was acting in such a way.

"Others have teased you about it?" he inquired.

At his question, she shifted her gaze to the interesting linoleum flooring. "Yes," she said, her voice a soft murmur.

"Your friends?" It was a good guess, considering that the majority of people would covet such an opportunity in order to get out of school faster.

Mikoto pursed her lips. This guy was smart—she'd give him that much. She nodded once. "Yeah."

"Hn," Fugaku said. He leaned back against the spine of the chair, his arms crossed behind his head. "Some friends," he muttered. "They should all go eat chicken-shit for all they care."

Before he could say anymore, the girl lifted her gaze and smiled at him, giving him a small laugh. In that tiny display of emotion, her cheekbones lifted, her eyes scintillated, and her face flushed and glowed.

Just the sight of her laughter was so surreal that Fugaku could just barely realize the small blush that threatened to overpower his tanned face. He turned away, covering his scowl with his hand as he stared down, forcing himself to become frustrated at the calculus shit once again so that he wouldn't have to face her.

Of course, being the curious creature she was, she leaned over his shoulder, peering at the sheet. "What're you working on?"

"Calculus," he said brusquely, shifting uncomfortably in his seat in a hope that she would go away—just for a couple more minutes, at least—so that she could save him the embarrassment of his current fail attempt at homework.

It seemed she could read his mind; Mikoto smiled at him, snickering silently to herself. "Seems more like calculus is working against you." Without another moment's hesitation, she placed a hand on another chair and shifted it over to Fugaku's desk, sitting herself comfortably at his left side. At his seemingly hostile stare, she said, "I hope you don't mind me; I was just hoping to help you out, is all."

"Hn," Fugaku merely responded, appearing to seem uninterested in her help.

But Mikoto knew that at his shift in his seat, his turned body and wider arms' width, he was willing to let her help.

And at that, she smiled.

"Thanks," she said softly.

"Just be quiet and tell me why this doesn't make any sense."

Chuckling at him, she stared down at the sheet of paper, squinting at the problems as she groped around her person to find her glasses. Then, when she managed to scoot the bridge of the black-rimmed glasses onto her nose, her hands unconsciously took over, subconsciously placing her thumb in between her lips as she fell into thought on the first problem.

Fugaku stared, fascinated. The glasses seemed to transform her into something else. She seemed more down-to-earth and so much more real than before.

Not to mention that those glasses were pretty damn sexy…

He mentally conked himself. Stupid. She was just here to help him. Nothing more.

Mikoto, not realizing that her peer had gone into deep thought in a different direction, grabbed the eraser across the table and began to rub away all of Fugaku's work.

"Hey!" he said, unable to keep in his uncharacteristic outburst as he tried to rip the eraser out of her hands. "What the hell are you doing? I worked hard on that."

She batted his hand away, trying to keep him away as she wrestled the paper away from him. "I'm sorry to tell you this, Uchiha-kun, but all of that work was for nothing." She stifled a gasp when he held both of her wrists in one of his large, imposing hands and yanked the pink block out of her hands.

Fugaku scowled at her, frustrated at the fact that she didn't shy away from his seemingly frightening gaze that other girls seemed to say made them want to cover their throats in fears of them being slit open abruptly. It bothered him, to say the least, that she didn't react one bit. Any girl that he would even _look _at would shy away from his gaze. But she didn't. Not even to struggle.

"Uchiha-kun," Mikoto said after a couple moments went by, "I'd appreciate it if you'd let go of my wrists so that I'd be able to help you."

"Hn." Trying to look as if he hadn't forgotten that she was still in his grasp, he let her go, sitting back in his chair as he wordlessly edged her to start.

As the minutes went by, Fugaku sat more forward each time, soaking in all the theories and math concepts as Mikoto spoke. He decided that he liked her teaching style, the straightforward way that she taught instead of the teacher's pompous method (Ikeda-sensei liked to add weird, complicated English words to his lecture so that he could sound smart).

When the first bell rang, his entire sheet was completely filled out and ready to go.

Students filed in just as the teacher shuffled through the door, sliding it shut when the second bell signaled the beginning of the school day.

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Wherever _you_ are, **you** will _**always**_ be in my _heart_.

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"Really?" A soft laugh rang out of her mouth, stifled only by the palm of her hand. "That sensei must have hated your guts."

Fugaku smirked, swinging his bag over his right shoulder as he waited for the other students to trail out of the classroom, watching as Mikoto frantically tried to finish packing her stuff. "Yeah, well, he's a part of the reason why Madara skipped ahead—he liked the kid too much. Thought I was a brat."

"No way," she said as her mouth fell open. "I can't believe that it wasn't _you _that skipped—you're so smart!"

It had been weeks since their first tutoring session—that was what the two of them called it—and they had been meeting a couple of times a week in order for Mikoto to work on calculus with Fugaku. Sometimes they met in the library where they had some quiet (or when Mikoto wanted to torture him with some practice tests); the other, more frequent times were spent in the classroom on the early mornings that both of them managed to get there.

Fugaku snorted, although pleased she thought of him as such. "Whatever." Unable to wait any longer, he reached across her with his free hand, taking her notebooks just as he started walking off. Taking a couple longer strides toward the door, he was sure that she'd start noticing her missing notebooks…

"_Uchiha no baka_!"

… right about now.

Giving her an encompassing smirk, he dashed out of the room, chuckling as he heard her footsteps behind him. There was no way that she'd be able to catch up with him, considering the gender differences; he managed a good jogging pace, accelerating and decelerating in order to keep _just barely_ ahead of her.

"Sorry," he muttered as he managed to barely swerve out of the way of a couple of bewildered students and found his footing on the steps, taking two at a time. He turned his head, looking back to find an angry Mikoto staring back at him.

Even though her breath was fading on her and her legs felt like falling off, she kept after him. "_Kami_, Uchiha," she growled, "I swear, when I get my hands on—"

As if on cue, her bottom limbs stumbled over each other as she reached the stairs, a small, frightened yelp slipping from her lips as she tripped, bracing her arms in front of her face to protect her face and head from the inevitable tumble—

"Gotcha," she heard.

—only to find herself landing safely into someone's arms.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Still dazed. Raised her head _just_ so, her gaze finding his strong jaw, serious lips and smoldering obsidian eyes.

When Fugaku shifted her body in his arms, she yelped, her arms subconsciously wrapping behind his neck just to have something to anchor her into place.

"Hn," he muttered, staring down at her frightened figure and back up the flight of stairs she nearly fell down. He jerked his head at the crowd that had formed, making it disperse with that simple move. Once the student body was all gone, Fugaku sat down on the stairs, his arms still full with a shaking Mikoto. He watched as her lips trembled with silent words, her eyes squeezed shut.

"I never knew that you were so clumsy," he said, chuckling slightly despite the situation.

Mikoto stared up at him, her cheeks glowing red with rage and embarrassment. "Shut up," she muttered under her breath as she trembled, the adrenaline still running through her veins. "I wouldn't have fallen if you hadn't stolen my notebook, you ass."

Amused at the crude words he'd never heard from her before, Fugaku shifted her in his arms and patted her on the back as if to tell her everything was okay.

She flushed with another wave of embarrassment and pulled away from him, standing herself up on her two feet as she tried to tremble as little as possible. "I'm fine," she said, gesturing to her fairly normal stature. "See?"

Fugaku just stared.

She huffed at him. "I don't need you to baby me, Uchiha-kun. I can take care of myself."

Fugaku just rolled his eyes. "Says the girl who nearly fell down an entire flight of stairs."

"I'm serious!"

"I am, too."

Mikoto pursed her lips, her brow furrowing. Gathering her bag and misplaced notebooks, she brushed herself off and cleared her throat, her face still flushed red. Before she walked away, she went up to Fugaku (who was still sitting on the stairs) and said curtly, "Thank you, Uchiha-kun." Then, she disappeared.

And Fugaku?

He sat there afterward, his head buried in his folded arms on his knees and struggled to hold in a smile, silently thanking whoever gave him the opportunity to catch her.

Completely unaware of his brother, prowling the flight of stairs, his eyes narrowed at the earlier exchange.

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She taught me_**how to love**_, but not _how to stop_.

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**-xxx-**

Madara knew that day was fairly strange, the way his brother finally managed to cock a smile, even if it was to himself, the way the girl blushed when Fugaku caught her, the longing…

Looking back at it now, while he stood before the window amidst his large study, staring across London with his hands behind his back, Madara knew there was something strange that had just started to blossom between those two, and how that "something strange" was going to be snuffed sooner or later.

His hands balled, fists tight behind his back as he stared at his reflection in the window, smirking, chuckling sinisterly.

It'd been a long time since he'd ever thought of Fugaku as an admirable figure. He remembered back when he—that is, Madara—struggled holding his head high when he'd found out he'd managed to skip a couple of grades, putting himself a grade higher than his older brother. He'd admit: it was hard for him to do so when his _beloved_ brother had humbled himself to place his younger brother before himself, even though he secretly knew Fugaku never wanted to admit it. Fugaku, to Madara's younger self, was a modest figure, a man worth recognizing yet a man who never wanted the spotlight.

Because of Fugaku's efforts, Madara should have been made the head of the family company—he would have gotten out of school earlier than his older brother and thus been more qualified for the position, the position Madara coveted in order to prove to their father that he was just as worthy as his brother.

'_But it seemed Father never wanted me_.'

His father would cheat the family tradition, subtly adding another prerequisite for acquiring the company, one that Father knew Madara would fail to achieve. '_He cheated me just to get that brat Fugaku the company._'

Stupid older brother. Stupid father. Stupid _girl_.

But no more. He would not be cheated anymore. He was a winner. No one could take anything away from him when he wanted something…

"Oji-san?"

Madara turned toward the door. Another smirk formed upon his lips as he saw his nephew. "Sasuke," he drawled, "you should be asleep."

Sasuke—the son of his poor, deceased older brother and sister-in-law. He had his mother's face and nii-san's hair.

… _Sasuke _was proof of his will.

**-xxx-**.

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_You_ **can't** _buy_ _**love**_, but you _can_ **pay** _heavily_ for _it._

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Madara lay on his bed, his hands laced behind his head, as if he were pretending he had all the time in the world to count the dots on his ceiling. His mind, however, was plagued by that mysterious girl at school. He swore that he had never seen her before, yet at the same time, she seemed so familiar.

Familiar enough to make him burn with desire at the moment that she gave him that smoldering look.

Madara shook his head. Ridiculous. Why should he spend his time thinking of a single girl when there were so many more out there to toy with, to _ruin_? A small, devilish smile crossed his face. The female race was fun; all of them wanted to be plastered to his side, begging for a good fuck. Of course, he'd give it to them, only to leave the very next day to find another victim. He had always been like that. Nothing was going to change.

He was going to show that Mikoto girl who was in charge, to show her that _she_ would be the one seduced by _him_—not the other way around, especially not through the means of his older brother.

"Madara."

From his place on the bed, Madara sat up, staring at his older brother who stood by the frame of the doorway. He raised an eyebrow as if to ask, _What is it?_

Fugaku walked into the room, not waiting for Madara's permission, and flopped onto the swivel chair by Madara's desk. "Otou-sama wants to see you downstairs."

"What for?" He eyed his brother from his place on the bed, not moving an inch. Whenever Otou-sama asked for favors, it was always a selfish proposition.

Fugaku shrugged. "I didn't ask." Seeing his younger brother's discomfort, he quickly added, "But I do have a feeling that it's in regards to your future and the company."

Silence ensued.

Madara sat up and sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I really don't want the company—too much work." Of course, it was a bluff. He wanted that company position more than anything.

Fugaku snorted. "Says the kid who skipped two grades and would be fit to run the world."

"Actually, I think it's mostly _your_ fault because you just plain suck." Madara dodged a couple of pencils and laughed when his brother glared at him. "Besides," he said, launching himself at his brother, a giant grin on his face, "Madara's too _laaaazy_!"

"Hey, cut it out, dobe!" Fugaku said, frantically trying to shove the clinging monkey off, pinching Madara's cheeks and stretching them every which way. "Get off!"

"You gotta say the magic word!" Madara teased, trying to elbow his brother in the ribs.

"Madara."

The stone-cold voice cut through the air, a sharp, firm blade that stopped Madara's antics and Fugaku's squirming in their tracks.

By the door, a man stood, his cropped hair successfully managing to frame his squareish face as his solid black eyes locked onto the two brothers, almost as if he were analyzing his prey. Although it looked like he had just gotten back from work, his navy blue tie still stayed firm at its place around his neck, the tuxedo making his shoulders look stiff and uncomfortable, a typical look for the old man.

Madara stiffened immediately. He released his brother and stood with his hands by his sides. "_Otou-sama_," Madara said in brief greeting.

His father lowered his head in what seemed to be a nod before slowly lifting his gaze back to his second-born. "Based on this frivolous display," he said, his voice like gravel as his chest rumbled with movement, "I assume that Fugaku has told you of your meeting with me that you _should_ have kept to."

His hands clenched unconsciously. "_Hai, otou-sama_. Please excuse my disrespect."

For a moment, his father regarded the both of them with his stone-cold eyes before raising his chin to them. "Well then," said Father, "I suppose that you won't mind telling that to your guest."

'_Guest?_' Madara nearly scoffed, just before realizing that his father was still before him. Really—he could care less about guests. Who would want to visit at such an ungodly hour? Especially since whoever it was interrupted his time with his older brother. "Who is he?" he nearly drawled.

"_She_." A figure stepped from behind Otou-sama to lean onto the doorframe, her arms crossed against her chest.

Kami, talk about speaking of the devil.

Fugaku stared at her. "Mikoto?"

She sent him a small, almost undetectable smile. "Hello again."

"You know my sons, Mikoto-san?" Otou-sama asked.

"Yes," she answered. Her voice was so soft that the entire room needed to strain their ears to hear her. "I met Madara first at school and Fugaku second."

Fugaku didn't miss the fact that she didn't mention their study sessions together.

"Uchiha-sama," she said, turning to the patriarch, "it seems as if these two weren't expecting me. Have I come at a wrong time?"

"No, no, my dear," Otou-sama told her, ushering the boys out of the room and into the living room. "We all have been expecting you."

Madara stared—he would have known if _she_'d been coming by. "We have?" He cringed when Fugaku elbowed him in the ribs. "Right," he said through his teeth, rubbing the sore spot gingerly.

Mikoto had to hold in a laugh, not realizing the two pairs of eyes on her.

When the two boys stared blankly at their father, Otou-sama cleared his throat. "Madara," he said, "we both know how capable you are for the chief executive officer position, due to your ascendency in academics and diplomatic etiquette and charisma." Noticing his son's sudden rigidness, he softened and deflated his tone. "I know you've been spending much of your time at the office as an intern under your uncle. However, you must solidify your position, as a prerequisite of the Uchiha company, through marriage." Otou-sama shifted slightly in his seat. "That is where Mikoto-san comes in."

For a moment, Madara couldn't speak, hell, let alone _breathe_. It seemed like Fate had come around, sweeping his glorious hand and pushing him and Mikoto together. Taking Mikoto and the company for himself… life was just too easy.

But there was one thing…

"Otou-sama," he said, "why must it specifically be Mikoto-san?" He winced as Fugaku nudged him again—_hard_. "Not to be rude to her," he quickly added.

Before Otou-sama could even open his mouth, Mikoto jumped in. "Well Uchiha-kun—er, Madara-kun, then, considering how I'll end up confusing myself—it seems that Uchiha-sama and my father wanted to join their companies, because of how hard it is for my father to continue caring for the company—"

"—and through the marriage, Madara would be able to hold the company, and the consolidation would work out perfectly," Fugaku finished for her, seeming to absentmindedly speak to himself. "Not only that, Mikoto would be taken care of…"

After a minute of silence, Otou-sama cleared his throat. "Thank you, Mikoto-san."

"My pleasure."

"Well then," he said, clapping his hands once, "considering how you three will be given a month off from school due to the coming break, I believe that would be a wonderful time for you, Madara, to become well acquainted with Mikoto-san."

Mikoto bit her lip. '_It's for the consolidation,_' she told herself. '_For ending the company wars._'She turned to Madara and briefed a smile. "I hope that we'll become good friends, Madara-kun."

_Madara-kun_. That had a nice ring to it. He nodded to her, quirking up a corner of his lips. "Me too, Mikoto-chan."

She got to her feet, trying to keep the atmosphere from getting _too_ awkward. "Well then," she began, "I guess I'll try to come by a couple of days a week—"

"Nonsense!" Otou-sama boomed, startling the girl. "I'll have you two get acquainted through our house in the countryside." He turned to Fugaku. "And _you_, Fugaku, shall escort them."

"_What?_"

The two brothers looked at each other in their spontaneous, uncharacteristic outbursts.

Mikoto slowly sat down again, her eyes glued to Otou-sama. "Uchiha-sama?"

The Uchiha patriarch merely stared at them as if it were a daily routine. "Why, of course. You can't get acquainted with a lady at the main house; what a ridiculous notion."

"Otou-sama, that wasn't exactly what we were talking about," Fugaku said through gritted teeth. "Mikoto and Madara are the ones getting acquainted. I don't believe that I should follow them in their endeavors."

"Fugaku, you shall only be there as a sort of caretaker," Otou-sama assured him, gracing a hand upon his elder son's shoulder to sit him down. "You'll only be there to be sure they are eating, that the house won't be used as a festive area"—he glanced at Madara who took to a somewhat goofy (well, for an Uchiha) grin and the innocent scratching of the back of his head—"and that the two are actually getting acquainted. You will be their guide." Otou-sama raised his chin to him. "I trust in you."

.

.

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_We_ _**always**_ ignore the ones who **adore** _us_, and **adore** those who ignore _us_.

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.

"_Nii-san, nii-san, nii-san!_" Madara bounded up to Fugaku, excitement creating springs in his heels as he grabbed his older brother by the hand and tugged him toward the country house. "Let's go, let's go, let's go!"

Mikoto, seeing the scowl on Fugaku's face, laughed as she stepped out of the truck. "I'll help with the bags."

"Oh, me too, Mikoto-chan~!" With the large ear-to-ear smile plastered onto his face and his energy, it was hard to believe Madara was supposed to be a sophisticated, genius heir-to-be. Madara took hold of Mikoto's unoccupied hand, shoving a small bag under his arm. "C'mon, we're here, we're here!" Away he bounded, helplessly tugging the two along.

Although the other two exchanged looks and gave sighs, they understood Madara's enthusiasm quite well.

The house stood proudly, a large white Victorian house that dominated the expansive, verdant meadow and allowed the entire willow tree groves to be its backyard. Its balcony protruded from the front of the house as if it was a surveyor to the beach and the waves of grass. The beach, a friendly neighbor, visiting with the occasional cool breezes and the gentle waves of hello, was seen not too far off in the distance, a nearby pier creating a bridge between the ocean and the shore. The quaint porch swing undulated as if to welcome the three teenagers as they approached the house, hand-in-hand.

All Mikoto could do was stand there, her eyes wide and scintillating with childish awe, her lips curved into a smile. The pure charm of this house made her nostalgic—for what, she didn't know. It all took her breath away.

"Hn. I'm going to head inside; you guys can keep standing out here with your blowfish impressions," Fugaku grumbled, jogging up the porch and disappearing into the house.

Mikoto shook her head in wonder before turning to Madara. "This place is amazing. Why don't you guys come here more often?"

Madara shrugged, still _very_ mindful of the fact that they were still holding hands. Her hand felt soft, yet so small. With the wind whipping around her hair, he caught smell of a pleasant, bittersweet scent—lavender? Vanilla? "We don't tend to have much time on our hands as we used to," Madara answered, his disposition switching back to the serious, straight-A student he was. "_Nii-san_ and I are too busy studying, and when we're not studying, _nii-san_'s always practicing guitar, and I'm always at the company building with _oji-san_."

Mikoto surprised him with a mischievous grin. "Well, now you've got time. Stop moping, Marty Su." She tugged on his hand, pulling him along and up the stairs. "C'mon. I'll try to fix you guys up while we're here."

Madara couldn't have gone along more fervently.

.

.

.

_Some_ _**people**_ come into our lives, **leave footprints** on our _hearts_, and _**we are never the same**_.

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The third day, after settling in, deciding who would get which room and buying supplies from the nearby town, the spring showers came. The fire in the fireplace crackled and danced as if crying for rain to parch it. Instead of going with the fire's demand, the raindrops fell to the grass, making the green seem more alive as the wind sprinted through the field. The three of them sat inside, watching the rain from the living room.

"So much for going outside," Madara sighed as he rolled onto his back. He turned to his brother who was lounging on the love seat. "_Nii-san_, did you happen to bring a board game?"

"For a genius, Madara-kun, you sure aren't very creative," Mikoto teased.

Fugaku snorted. "Besides, knowing you, Madara, you'd probably choose Twister." He dodged Madara's shoe and smirked before escaping toward the door. "Food," he tersely said, but before he left, he stuck his head back in and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, _Anybody want anything?_ At the other two's headshakes, he disappeared toward the left wing of the house.

The two of them sat in silence, listening to the rain and watching it stream down the windows.

Mikoto was the first to break the silence. "Madara-kun," she said without turning to him, "don't tell Fugaku-kun this, okay?" She didn't catch the way Madara stiffened.

Madara forced himself to relax. "What wouldn't you want _nii-san_ to know?"

She lowered her head, hoping that her hair would hide the blush on her face. "I kind of want to run around in the rain." At the sound of stifled laughter, she turned toward him and pouted. "Hey!"

Madara held his hands out in defense, still chuckling. "I'm sorry, but that sounds pretty stupid to me."

Mikoto _humph_-ed. "Gee, thanks," she grumbled, standing up.

"Hey, where're you going? I was just kidding, you know," Madara called after her. "Don't get your panties in a notch."

"I'm _not_ getting my panties in a notch," she fired back. She stuck her chin out at him defiantly. "I'm going to go out and run in the rain, whether it's foolish or not."

"Fine with me; I like 'em feisty."

She rolled her eyes, but even she was unable to keep back a smile. "Shut up," she said and quickly walked out of the room and toward the front door, stopping only by the hall mirror to assess her outfit, and then walked straight to the outside, not even bothering to put on shoes.

The rain was cool on her skin when she ran down the porch steps, grinning toward the sky as she spun, the white skirts of her summer dress fanning out around her like the petals of a flower. The mud squished under her feet, and she laughed as the wind blew her hair about, making it stick to her cheeks. She ran her hands along the different flower patches that grew to her knees. She ran through the grass with her skirts trailing behind her, occasionally getting caught on different patches of grass. When she finally got back to the porch, her feet were caked with mud, her hair dripping wet, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright.

"I assume this is how you enjoy passing your time?"

Mikoto jumped.

There, sitting on the porch swing, eating a pork bun, was Fugaku, sitting lazily on the left side of the porch swing. He smirked. "You must really like blowfish a lot."

Her face flushed pinker than ever; she clamped her mouth shut. "When did you get here?"

He shrugged before taking another bite out of his pork bun. With his mouth still full of food, he garbled out, "I've been here." And it was true, too. He'd been fairly surprised when he'd seen the door open and she'd come out, shoeless and garbed in a mere, white summer dress, and started for the meadow. She seemed to dance alongside the rain, seemed to come alive and blend with the flowers she caressed.

Mikoto wrinkled her nose at the display of food in his mouth. "Gross, Fugaku-kun."

He swallowed and scoffed at her. "Says the chick with mud shoes."

"_Baka_," she said, smirking as she flaunted her "mud shoes" at him before she reached for the door—

Only to be stopped by a large, warm hand.

Eyes wide and face beginning to heat up, Mikoto frantically tried to shake his hand off of hers to no avail and huffed. "What now?"

Fugaku pointed to her feet, the pork bun stuffed into his mouth. He took her by the hand to the edge of the porch steps and sat her down—entirely unaware of how she flushed. "Stick your feet out," he muffled through the bun.

She did as he said, grumbling something about "buttfaces not wanting their house to be dirty," watching the rain speckling off the coat of mud. Mikoto held her breath as Fugaku sat down beside her, his head vulnerable to the rain as he reached for her foot. She watched him silently as he worked on cleaning her feet, her eyes roaming his broad shoulders, flexing every time he moved; his strong jawline, clenching and unclenching; and the feel of his hands, massaging her foot—it felt as if she would lose herself in his hands.

And when he turned toward her, she could see herself in his dark brown eyes—and found herself staring at those lips…

"Your feet are really tiny," he murmured, still massaging them. He didn't turn away from her. "_All_ of you is tiny."

She swallowed silently. "You… you just have big hands…"

Silence overcame them, the rain still roaring overhead as they sat on the porch steps, her tiny feet in his large hands while they stared at each other. Their thoughts ran back to that day when he caught her, when she almost fell down the stairs.

She remembered how those broad shoulders felt—large, imposing, yet comforting because they were just _there_, like a shield. She'd remembered how warm he was and how small she felt in his arms. She bit her lip.

He remembered how soft she felt: her arms, her skin, her hair. And when she buried her face into his neck, he caught scent of that bittersweet scent he'd always smell on her during their tutoring sessions. She was so warm in his arms. Feeling a dryness consuming his throat, he swallowed.

Soon, she could see her tiny, pink-tinged feet. She retracted them from the rain and his hands, flexing her toes before she stood. "Thanks," she murmured, quickly pushing past him for the door. She opened it and ran in. When she ran in, she swore she heard Madara groan, but at the moment, she didn't care.

She couldn't face Madara right now. She just needed to get away, before she could do anything that would—

As she ran up the stairs and into her room, she closed the door, leaned against it, and slid, down, down, down until her butt met the floor. She put her face in her hands. Took in a shaky breath. And shook her head. "…what am I _doing_?"

.

.

Fugaku sat alone on the porch, having finished his pork bun. His eyes were closed, and a hand was massaging the bridge of his nose. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, trying to force out the image of her dancing in the rain, the image of her wearing those glasses, the image of her smiling, the image of her half-lidded eyes staring back at him, her lips begging to be—

"Oh God," he muttered to himself, putting his face in his hands. "What the hell am I doing?"

.

.

He couldn't take it. He'd watched her run through the rain, the way her dress stuck to her like a second skin, the way her nipples puckered as the rain soaked her. He seen the way her eyes closed, her mouth opened, her smile, her flushed cheeks…

He brought his hand down on his cock again, tightening it like her pussy would. God, she must be tight. That babe's a pure _virgin_. Madara groaned as he quickened his pace, imagining her riding him and him, helpless with his back on the ground. He imagined her afterward, staring up at him with flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, with bruised, well-attended-to lips, and with a glistening womanhood staring up at him as she touched herself, her mouth open in a silent scream as she inched in those small, slender fingers. She'd quicken her pace, screaming out his name as she fucked herself, her mouth clamped tight onto his member, teasingly sucking the head of his penis, running that pink glossa across his tiny slit.

And he'd pull her fingers out of her, push her to the floor and return the favor; he'd tease her, fuck her senseless with his tongue, suck on her clit so hard she'd have no choice but to come in his mouth.

'_I'll bet she tastes sweet_,' he thought as his hips joined his hand in his imaginary fuck session. '_I'll bet she'll beg me to take her again and again and again_—_and then when she can't take it anymore, I'll fuck her again._' He could already think of the ways he'd position her—on all fours, missionary with her legs split wide open, against the wall, on the kitchen table.

The thought of her on her side, her legs spread wide open as to rest a leg on his shoulder as he thrust hard into her while he pinched her clit made even more pre-cum soak his tip.

He could almost hear her screaming his name in that sultry, sexy voice of hers.

"Fuck!" he cursed. In an instant, he came, forcing himself to bite the inside of his cheek from shouting her name. He lay there for a while, catching his breath before he stood up and zipped up his pants as he headed over to the bathroom to wash off the "evidence" on his clothes.

Just in time to see Fugaku walk in the front door, his face twisted in a frown.

"Oi, _nii_-san!" Madara called as he washed his hands. "What's wrong?"

Fugaku ran a hand through his hair and stifled a sigh before he shook his head. He forced an awkward smile at his brother, patting Madara's spiky hair with a large hand. "Nothin'." He walked around him toward the stairs and took the steps two at a time. "Gonna change for dinner. Be down in a sec."

" 'Kay!" Madara, after confirming his brother's door closed, heaved out a sigh of relief.

.

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_Every_ **time** we _talk_, I fall a _little_ _**harder**_.

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"_Ah-choo_!" The vigorous sneeze echoed throughout the house, managing to out-voice the rain for a moment. Mikoto sniffled. She tried to squeeze closer to the edge of the couch, her pillow wedged underneath her head as she pulled the comforter higher up her body and shivered.

Madara sat nearby, a water bin at his feet and a towelette in hand. Squeezing the excess water out, he folded it neatly before gently placing it onto Mikoto's forehead. He sighed. "You know, I told you, you shouldn't have gone out to run around in the rain."

Mikoto, fierce even with the sniffles, coughed at him and laughed when he frantically tried to shield himself.

"Yuck." He wrinkled his nose at her. "For a girl, you sure have the worst hygiene." In return, he flicked her with water, earning a shriek of protest. He smirked when she glared at him. "Just be glad that _nii-san_ isn't taking care of you; if you'd done that to him, he would have drowned you."

At his mentioning of Fugaku, Mikoto gave in, huffing a breath in defeat. She turned away from Madara to stare at the couch. After what had happened yesterday, Fugaku wouldn't even look at her. Today, he'd made an excuse of going in to town to buy some supplies, leaving her in Madara's care. She didn't blame him of course; after all, the entire reason of why they were here was to make sure that she and Madara got along, to get to know each other so that they'd be comfortable living with each other after…

'_After the marriage_…' Ever since she was little, she'd imagine her being married to someone she got to know—someone she'd probably gotten to know in high school, like those high school sweetheart stories she'd always hear. A wry smile crossed her face. 'Course her father would screw up her life to make sure his company was taken care of before his daughter's happiness…

"Yo."

She looked over her shoulder, finding Fugaku standing next to Madara with a bag of groceries in his hand. "You're back," she grumbled, sitting herself up and rubbing at her eyes.

"Ooh, _nii-san_, you brought me treats! You shouldn't have!" Madara reached over his brother, frantically grabbing at the bag, only to have Fugaku keep him at bay with a palm to his face.

"Dobe," he said, still keeping his hand on Madara's face as his little brother continually tried for the bag. "These aren't _all_ for you—"

"So you _did_ get me sweets~!"

Fugaku sighed. "Soda and pork buns." Before Madara could do his celebratory dance, he stopped him with a raised hand. "Only because the house didn't have any more."

Mikoto _tsk-_ed. "You know, Fugaku-kun, if you keep eating those pork buns, you're going to get really fat."

That earned her a snort.

She huffed and stood up from her seat on the bed, finding her slippers and marching over to the table to grab a pork bun while Madara sat back on the couch, happily eating his own. Tearing open the wrapper, she plopped down onto the couch and bite into the bun.

"Be careful," Fugaku began, a smirk forming on his face, "if you keep eating pork buns, you'll get really fat." He barely managed to catch the can of soda she threw at him, fumbling for a moment before he steadied his hands. Popping it open with a hiss and taking a sip, he threw her back a smug smirk before giving a small belch. " 'Scuse."

Madara laughed. "Wow, _nii-san_, that sucked. And you call yourself a man. Gimme that." He beckoned for the soda, ignoring Fugaku's scowl. He took a gulp—out came a louder burp. Madara smiled in triumph. "Top that."

Mikoto rolled her eyes. "Guh-ross, you guys," she said, still chewing her pork bun.

"Hn," Fugaku grunted, his hands behind his head.

Madara smirked. "_Nii-san_'s right—you're just jealous."

"How're you so sure he said that?" Mikoto shot back. "For all you know, he probably said, 'Ramen is _totes_ sexy.'" She ignored the face Fugaku sent her way. " 'Sides, I'm pretty sure I can outburp _both_ of you."

"Right."

"Yeah! I've been outburping my father since day one." At their raised eyebrows, she sighed, rolled her eyes, and reached for the open soda can. Swallowing the remainder of her pork bun, she cleared her throat, took a gulp and paused for a moment. A loud, bordering obnoxious burp ensued thereafter. She sniffled and smiled at the two of them. "Nice tonsils, guys."

Fugaku, the first of them to shut their mouths and de-raise his eyebrows, sighed. "I'm definitely glad I'm not marrying her."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked as she crossed her arms.

Fugaku sat forward, the soda can back in his hands. "Wasn't your mother supposed to give you etiquette lessons? Train you or something?" He took a sip. "Girls shouldn't be able to do that."

Sensing the severity of the direction of the conversation and seeing Mikoto's increasingly tensing shoulders, Madara jumped in. "M-Mikoto-chan, he—"

"She did teach me, actually." Her voice, although soft, sweet and feminine, seemed to seep with venom, quiet like a hissing snake before an attack. "I'd appreciate it, however, Uchiha-sama"—the surname almost inflated with sarcasm—"if you didn't include my mother into this conversation."

"Hn." Even though he still looked the same ol' stoic him, Madara could tell, with the way he started clenching and unclenching his hands, Fugaku was sweating nervous pools on the inside.

"You know what, Uchiha," she said, raising her voice just a notch as she turned toward him, "I think we actually deserve some fun, okay? Yeah, etiquette—I get it. But you know, we're here to get to know each other; the etiquette is just the outside, 'for show'—and that stuff's _crap_. I _hate_ the chauvinistic world we live in, making girls do all those over-the-top things." Her face was flushed pink in the cheeks, and she was trembling.

The men just stared at her—in awe, in fear, who knew?

"If we have to get to know each other, then you have to be able to put up with my shit." At this point, she was waving her hands, creating all sorts of gesticulations. "Yeah, I burp, I'm obnoxiously competitive, and I have a stupid temper, but"—she staggered back onto the couch and buried her face into a pillow. –"but if you guys can't handle that, then I can't do this anymore!" she finished, her words muffled into the pillow as she kicked her feet about.

Silence.

After another moment, she peeked out at both of them. "Too dramatic?"

Fugaku had his face buried in his hands. He sounded as if he was choking. Pushing his chair aside, he ran into the kitchen, trying to keep his eyebrows from over-twitching and his jaw muscles from spasming.

Madara glanced after him. "He's laughing," he told her when she gave him a questioning stare.

She snorted. "Serves him right." She felt a tingle of accomplishment at getting such a reaction out of him.

Madara laughed. "Oh, yeah. That was the _worst_ punishment you could've ever given him," he said through fits of laughter.

"Yeah, considering how much the guy _talks_," she retorted. "His grunts and stuff make him sound constipated."

That earned her another laugh.

Choking sounds could've still been heard from the kitchen.

Mikoto sighed, a soft smile on her face. "But you know, Madara-kun," she said, turning to him, "I kind of meant what I said. Not the part where I'd leave," she reassured him when she saw his eyes widen, "but the part where I wanted to have fun while I'm here—while we get to know each other. You know?"

It was the right thing to do—to get to know him. But…

… why did it feel so _wrong_?

She shoved it off as a passing feeling. '_It'll go away,_' she told herself.

Madara stared at her for a moment. Then he smirked, putting a hand on her head, patting her crown. "Judging by how Fugaku's choking up in the kitchen," he said, gesturing with a jerk of his head toward said place, "I think we've got to step it up." He grinned at her when her eyes widened. "If you can make him laugh like that, I think we'll get along great. Haven't heard _nii-san_ laugh like that in a while."

She laughed. "I didn't think it was _that_ funny."

"Heh. It was so dramatic, it was the _bad _funny." He howled when she punched him in the arm. Rubbing it gingerly, he muttered something along the lines of "Otou-sama setting him up with a man."

That earned him another punch.

After that, he'd set off a tickle fight, smirking when she turned into a giggling pool of mirth.

Madara didn't even have the slightest inkling of how hard he'd fallen.

Nor the slightest hint of the tremendous guilt she felt.

.

.

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How could an _**angel**_ _break_ my **heart**?

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**-xxx-**

She loved him. She had to have loved him—else she wouldn't have said that, wouldn't have said stuff like that to keep his hopes up, right? Right?

She had to. Some point in the time they spent together, she should have fallen for him. He'd calculated it so.

Madara scowled. No. She didn't, else she wouldn't have betrayed him for his brother. '_I'll bet it brought her a sick satisfaction,_' he thought. '_Must've felt good, toying with the school's most popular guy. Che. The whore_.'

The sound of his nephew's stifled sniffling brought him back—they'd managed to stop by the family cemetery. Sasuke had wanted to visit his parents.

Precious.

Uptaking his role as a caring uncle, he pressed a hand onto the young man's shoulder. '_What a child,_' Madara mentally scoffed. '_Already a man, yet unable to deal with the death of his parents. Pathetic._' He patted his nephew's shoulder. "Sasuke, why don't you wait in the car? I'd like to have some words with your parents."

He stiffened. Nodded once. "Aa." Then he left for the car.

Madara waited for a moment, making sure that Sasuke had already reached the car before placing a foot on Fugaku's tombstone. "'Here lies a beloved husband, father, and man, Uchiha Fugaku,'" Madara read. He smirked. "Might as well add the fact that he sucked pussy and fucked his little brother over. Didn't you, Fugaku? Couldn't stand the fact that you were gonna get beaten by your brother, so you made a move? Hm?" He kicked the pot of dead flowers. "See what your decisions got you, _nii-san_? See your baby son yet? Hm? How he cried for you?" His red eyes gleamed. "Pathetic."

Giving the grave next to him—_Uchiha Mikoto_'s—a good spit, he pivoted on his foot and started to walk toward the car. "The only one you managed to raise properly was that Itachi-boy of yours. A shame he's too smart for his own good."

A gleam in his eye. "But that's probably because he was mine."

**-xxx-**

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.

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**Once upon a time**, I was _falling_ in _**love**_; now I'm _falling_ _**apart**_.

.

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.

Mikoto sat on the porch swing. It was already nighttime; a week had passed since they'd come here, and still, she couldn't get over how beautiful it was here. The stars, unclouded with thanks to the lack of light pollution, were sprites in the sky. They clumped together, forming constellations—Mikoto could only find the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper—in their gleaming cliques. There only was a sliver of moon left in the sky tonight.

And tonight, Mikoto had decided to come outside—to breathe for a while. Sleep's dust was lost on her; she couldn't rest. So she found her way down the stairs and to the porch swing. It creaked while she moved. She fiddled with her thumbs.

"What am I doing?" she murmured to herself. She thought it was the right question—after all, the last couple days had been spent talking to Madara. He was lively and funny, always conveniently knowing what to say, and entirely charismatic. She'd managed to flirt with him, holding his hand occasionally and giving him a pretty smile…

But where was that spark?

Maybe she'd been in over her head when she'd agreed to this. Maybe staying home with Daddy should have been the first thing she should have done.

But by God, the man was so overbearing—she needed to find a way out of that house. So of course, she'd volunteered for an escape.

She didn't know she'd end up doing the wrong thing.

But what _was_ the wrong thing?

The feeling that, even though, yes, she was going along with her father's plan, getting to know this young man Madara for a future marriage, she was doing something wrong?

Maybe…

"Mikoto."

Getting up quickly from the porch swing, she startled. Then, seeing the figure in the door, she relaxed. "Fugaku-kun." She'd gotten used to calling them by their first names by now—just unable to rid them of their childish prefixes. "What are you doing out here?"

Fugaku closed the door behind him. He had a pork bun in hand. "I think that's something I should be asking you."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Aa."

She sat back onto the porch swing. Cocking her head at him, she asked, "You wanna join me?"

At first, he hesitated; the swing was fairly small. If he'd sat down, they'd end up touching. Seeing no other choice, he relented and sat besides her, nodding a silent thanks.

She stared at the starry sky. "You know, Fugaku-kun, I really like this place."

"Mm," he agreed, chewing on pork bun bits.

She chuckled at his response. "To tell you the truth, I was pretty hesitant about coming up here with you guys. I mean, seriously—two guys and one girl? A lot could happen."

Fugaku swallowed. "Yeah, like the girl outburping both guys." That earned him a punch. "You punch like a girl."

"I'm not going to even _bother_ responding to that." Reaching over, she pulled took a piece of his pork bun and popped it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Fugaku-kun?"

"Hn?"

"I kind of miss our study sessions."

"Mm."

"But I like the fact that we're spending more time together now." She nestled her head in her folded arms, which were propped up against her knees. "Even if Madara-kun's here." She grinned at him. "And I got to hear you laugh, too."

"Hn." A faint smile. "Be grateful; you're not getting another one out of me."

She smirked at him. "We'll see about that." She reached over him again, wanting another piece of pork bun, only to have him pull it out of her arm's reach. "Hey!"

"Get your own, fatty," he teased, keeping her at bay with a hand.

At his challenge, she did something that surprised them both.

She jumped on him.

And landed, torso on his lap.

She'd gotten the pork bun, triumphantly showing it off. "I win! I win, Fuga…" She trailed off when she realized their position. "…ku." She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Slowly, she pushed her torso off, turning to look at Fugaku in apology— but her breath caught when she felt his hand cup her cheek.

A part of him shadowed in the dark, a part of him illuminated by the moonlight—she saw it all. Saw how his lips parted ever-so-slightly; saw how his eyes became half-lidded and focused on her, and only her; saw how much feeling she could decode from his face alone: uncertainty—fear—guilt—frustration—

—and a softness, hidden behind them all, that made her insides melt.

She pushed herself completely off him when she saw that, but she didn't break off the eye contact.

It was that moment when she knew what she was doing wrong.

No—not even her. It was the world's fault. It was fate's fault.

It was just the feeling that fate instilled in her, the feeling that she'd run from one trap and into another—the trap her father made for her at home, and the one she was running into now.

The trap of marrying someone she didn't love.

That thought alone made her launch herself into his arms and press her lips to his…

… and as they kissed, at first awkwardly but then slowly and passionately, they were soon isolated into their own little world, unknowing of a third presence watching from the balcony above.

.

.

.

_**You know**_, I'm gonna _find a way_  
>to let you <strong>have your way with me<strong>.

.

.

.

Fugaku woke to the smell of burning food. The thought of that alone threw him out of bed, down the stairs, and into the kitchen—only to find a very frantic Mikoto trying to soothe a very angry pan of…

… whatever it was.

At his chuckle, she whipped around, a few strands of ebony falling from the loose bun on her head, her face a disappointed pout. "No!" she groaned. "You weren't supposed to be down here yet."

"What is that?" Fugaku asked, pointing to the thing in the pan.

She bit her lip, fumbling her thumbs. "Well… it was _supposed_ to be an omelet."

He brushed past her, taking the pan in hand and a plate in the other. Sliding the, er, "omelet" onto the plate successfully enough, he searched the cabinet and found a fork. "_Itadakimasu_," he said. And then he cut a piece and stuck it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

She watched him, and after a moment, she said, "How is it?"

"Not bad."

She snorted. "Liar."

Her words were confirmed by a crunch. "Hn," he grumbled back, trying to dislodge a piece of egg out of his teeth with his tongue. He glanced at her, found her pouting, and plopped a hand on top of her head.

To her surprise, he gave her an unpracticed smile. She felt her face heat up. "Stop gawking at me," she muttered.

"Not my fault you look like a tomato right about now," he replied with a smirk, earning him a severe glare. He kissed her on the cheek. "The omelet could use some, actually."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, knowing she couldn't argue gastronomy with him. Eying him while he continued to eat her sad attempt at an omelet, she thought back to the past nights when they met at the porch swing, chatting for a bit before settling for a nice, sweet round of kissing, a routine that had started because of that one first night.

At first, they'd pulled away from their feelings—sneaking around during the night to share a kiss behind Madara's back—what would Madara say? How would he react? But as they relaxed, spoke about it a night, they agreed to let the chips fall where they may—it might be a small fling… or it might grow into something larger.

They'd hope that whatever they had would stay where it would.

But there was that one night he'd brought out his guitar…

She flushed, still hearing his soft, soothing voice.

.

.

_She buried her face in her hands. "Fugaku, this is so embarrassing." She felt him shrug at her feet. _

_ "Suit yourself. Just wanted to give you a treat tonight, is all…"_

_ "No, wait!" Mikoto reached for him, stopping him in his tracks. "I was just kidding, seriously." She smiled. "I'm—a little excited, is all."_

_ "… can you shut up so I can play for you now?"_

_ "Mm-hm."_

_ He nodded. "But you gotta keep quiet, alright?"_

_ "Yessir!"_

_ With an almost lazy sigh, he started, playing a soft intro. Then, he was singing. "_Say—wasn't that a funny day?" _A strum_. "Gee, you had a funny way, a way about you, a kind of glow, of something new"—_a breath_—"Sure…" _He strummed_. "… I'll admit that I'm the same; another sucker for a game kids like to play, and the rules we like to use…"

_A soft, progression of chords. "_Don't you want the way I feel, don't you want the way I feel—don't you want the way I feel for you?"

_In a pause, he stared up at her, taking in her smile, the way she bit her lip._ "The sun, telling me the night is done; well, I refuse to let it stop our fun. Close your eyes, and make it dark again, and kiss… there's a thought, so how 'bout this? Let's pretend that both our lips are made of candy. After all, we need sweets every now and then…"

_He didn't get to finish. A soft pair of hands grabbed him by the face and brought him to an even softer pair of lips. The grip on his guitar fell lax—he had to stop himself before he dropped it. He consciously forced himself to place it gently on the ground. Just before he could hold her by the hips and tug her closer, she pulled away, eliciting a frustrated growl from him. _

_She smiled at him, biting her lip in that very same way that drove him insane. "Too much candy is bad for you, Fugaku-kun," she teased. She brushed a hand against his cheek. _

_Fugaku couldn't help but damn her for that moment alone. _

.

.

"Yo! Why didn't anyone care to wake me up?"

Mikoto instantly snapped out of her reverie, taking the finished plate out of Fugaku's hand and hurrying over to the sink. When she heard Madara step into the kitchen, she turned around and smiled, wiping her hands on a nearby towel. "_Ohayo gozaimasu_! Beautiful weather, ne, Madara-kun?"

Madara forced a smile right back at her. She acted as if she hadn't betrayed him. The slut. "_Hai_. Beautiful weather." Grabbing a water bottle out of the fridge, he voiced a cheery "_Ohayo!_" to his brother (who managed to return a grunt and a pat to his head) before plopping himself down at the table, all the while eying the two of them by the sink as they washed and dried the dishes.

.

.

.

_I don't know why_ they call it _**heartbreak**_.  
>It <em>feels<em> like _another_ _part_ of my _body_ is **broken**, too.

.

.

.

She sat on the porch swing again that night, a flow of energy making her a little jumpier than usual. She bit her lip and chewed at it for a while. Fiddled her thumbs. Then, picking herself up, she walked down the porch steps, stepping into the sleek grass, brushing her hands against the tips. At the sound of the opening door, she jerked her head, an excited smile gracing her lips—

"Fuga—"

—until she saw the figure at the door.

He stood and stared at her for a moment before making his way to the porch swing, sitting himself down. He leaned forward. Waiting. "_Kobanwa gozaimasu_, Mikoto-chan," he said. A smile was plastered on his face, strained at the corners of his lips.

Mikoto swallowed soundlessly. "Evening, Madara-kun." She didn't move toward the porch. "What—what are you doing out here so late?"

The smile seemed to grow even wider. The moonlight made his normally handsome face sallow and gaunt—his eyes seemed to gleam red. He didn't seem to notice the way she trembled. "You took the words right out of my mouth, dearest Mikoto-chan." His hungry eyes took in her poised arms, slender limbs that projected out of a simple white nightgown. "Were you waiting for someone?"

She knew he was trying to get her to confess; the thought of lying to him crossed her mind.

No. He knew anyway. Even if he hadn't before, the way she had started to call out Fugaku's name before gave her away.

"Yes," she answered, her voice strong and projected as if to fend off Madara's third-degree interrogation. "I was waiting for Fugaku, actually."

He _hm_-ed and nodded once. She had guts, that was for sure. '_She's an idiot_,' he responded to himself, '_she doesn't even know what she's gotten herself into._'

Her female intuition flickered. '_He's figured everything out by now,_' she thought, biting her bottom lip. '_He's just playing with me right now—testing me._' She stuck her chin out at him. "Where's Fugaku?"

Madara, for the first time, replied with a "Hn" and said, "Don't worry about your stupid boy-toy. You'll fuck him again soon enough; considering how late you guys usually _rendez-vous_, I'd say it'd be about an hour 'til he actually wakes up."

"We don't do that," she said. "You should know—spying on us, huh?"

He raised an amused eyebrow at her, surprised she actually had some brains on her.

"'Considering how late' we have our '_rendez-vous_'" she quoted him. "It shouldn't even take a genius to know you've been watching for a while to confirm our schedule. Probably to confirm this confrontation?"

Pushing himself slowly to his feet, he clapped, a sneer forming on his face as he walked closer and closer to the porch steps. "Great job, Mikoto-chan!" Another clap, another step. "You deserve a cookie!"

She stepped back with every one of his. It felt like every step of his was slowly crumbling her resolve. She couldn't help but tremble. "You know, Madara-kun," she said, still trying to keep her chin up, "we don't have to do this anymore."

When she saw him stop at the top of the porch steps, she brought on some more courage. "We can stop—we don't have to continue this marriage. The consolidation can go on, but now, we can both be happy." She swallowed. "I know that you don't want the pressures of marriage to keep you from your future goals. And…" A small smile lifted the corner of her lips. "… and I really like Fugaku. A lot. And I think that he feels something for me, too."

A tilt of her head. Her hands folded behind her back. "You've become one of my good friends these past weeks, and I hope that you can find that one special girl for you someday. So," she said, "let's both charge forward—for happiness. Okay, Madara-kun?"

For a moment, he couldn't… do anything. He'd gone numb when she'd confessed her feelings for his older brother, felt the same numb feeling when he saw them kissing that first night. His mind couldn't think, his lungs couldn't function, his heart seemed to stop. He felt like, in that one moment, he had stopped working. When he finally felt like he could think again, one word slipped from his thoughts.

_Rejection._

He'd lost.

Impossible.

No.

_No._

His thoughts slipped to his Otou-sama. His fake, sanguine smile when he'd suggested (_demanded_) for Fugaku to accompany them; to _nii-san_, who had caught her that one day and kept a smile on his face for the rest of that day; to the girl a couple yards away from him, who threw the final bomb at him.

Otou-sama, nii-san, Mikoto—_everyone_…

… _why? _

He didn't realize that he'd started staggering down the porch steps. The _R_-word pounded in his skull as he waded through the grass toward her.

"Madara-kun?" She edged away from him—but when she saw the holes that had become his eyes, the violent tremors, heard the hyperventilating, she _ran_. She didn't see where she was going; the horrible image of Madara replayed in her mind, to the point that it blinded her.

A pair of hands grabbed her, spinning her around and shoving her against what felt like the rough bark of a tree so hard that she yelped.

"Wha—?"

"I don't want any other girls."

She froze.

"No other… has caught my attention like you have, Mikoto-chan." He pulled away from her so he could see his face. The hyperventilation had faded away, crazed eyes were gone…

… so why did Mikoto feel waves of danger flooded off of him?

"Mikoto-chan," he said, his hands slowly sliding down her arms, "you can't be his. _I'm_ the one who loves you—not him."

Her breath cut short. Eyes widened. She shook her head at him, at first in disbelief, then in frantic. "No, Madara-kun, you don't—mmph!"

He'd cut her off with a rough kiss, forcing his way into her mouth with his tongue.

"N-No—" He cut her off again. "—stop!"

His grip tightened on her arms. He pushed away, his eyes half-lidded as he stared at her, took her in hungrily. "He can't have you—I have to beat him. You have to be mine."

Before her eyes could widen even a fraction, he'd ripped off two long strips of her dress, managing to tie her hands behind her in a second flat. She struggled violently, trying to pull away from him. "Stop—!" But her words choked against the gag he tied around her mouth.

'_He's not conscious of his actions_,' she told herself. '_He's delusioned himself, he doesn't know_!' But even the words she told herself couldn't stop the tears that had begun to spring up.

"Shh," he told her, kissing her gently on the cheek. And then, his hands tore open the remainder of her dress, revealing her entirety to him. Ignoring the sob she let out, his hungry eyes ran over her creamy, bare breasts, the pink nipples puckered in the moonlight. Tempted, he suckled on a breast, pinching the nub on its twin as he relished the choking sounds she produced. He swallowed her flesh, a man who'd been starved for months.

"Like that, baby?" he said, his tongue trailing down from the valley of her breasts to her navel, his tongue dipping into it to have a taste.

Not wanting to go down without a fight, she kicked him, hitting him in the crotch. At his howl, she started to run again, only to be caught by the foot in mid-run, greeting the ground with a sound _thump!_ The impact jarred her, stunning her, making her grit her teeth from the swift pain.

And then she found herself looking toward the tree. When her cheek began to throb and sting, she realized she'd been slapped.

Madara straddled her legs to keep them down. He grunted when her legs jerked in an attempt to throw him off. "You know, baby, I thought about making it good for you." A disfigured smirk curled his lips. "Too bad. Now then, I'm on a strict schedule tonight; we'll make this fast." Not even bothering to take off her panties, he jerked her legs open and plunged two fingers into her, relishing in her muffled shriek of protest.

'_No,'_ she thought, '_Kami, don't let this happen to me—make him stop…_' It hurt, oh, _Kami_, it _hurt_—she could feel his fingers invading her, clawing inside of her. She choked against the gag.

"That's right," he said darkly. "You feel that? Feel my fingers inside your tight little pussy? Hm?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears not to fall. They did anyway.

He pulled his fingers out of her, feeling her stickiness on his fingers. He put them in his mouth and sucked. "Mm…"

Mikoto felt as if she would vomit.

"Delicious," he said. His hands went to her thighs, spreading them apart even wider.

She tried to jerk away from him.

He held her still. "I want more, babe," he told her, watching her as he lowered his head between and licked at her covered core. He inhaled. "Mm… you even smell good." Tearing them off from her hips, he let the panties dangle at one thigh. "Watch," he commanded. When she refused, he took her clit between her teeth and added a quick burst of pressure.

A shock of overbearing pain burst from her pubic area, up her spine, to her skull, spawning another muffled shriek. Blinking through the tears, she looked down at him.

And then, he proceeded, making sure she watched him before he gave a swift lick, base to clit.

This time, pleasure exploded through her. Her spine bowed, pushing her breasts toward the sky she were an offering. A wetness formed between her legs.

'_Please help me… anybody… anyone_.' She choked on her sob, on a mid-cry of pleasure. '_Kami… Fugaku… anybody…_'

Madara smirked, lapping up the forming wetness, bring his tongue to swirl around her sensitive nub. He watched as she struggled, whimpering and trembling as he continued to torture her. Swirling, sucking, licking he went, watching her every reaction in approval. But when he finally plunged his tongue inside her, she trembled, the gag in her mouth vibrating from the intense silent scream, and she came with a flood.

_She felt so dirty. _

_She shouldn't like this—_

—_this wasn't right._

He didn't even bother to warn her. With one movement, he'd sheathed himself inside her—and broke her barrier.

If she'd thought that the fingering hurt—she took it back. Saying that this _hurt_ was an enormous understatement. She felt as if she was being stretched, ripped from the inside out, stripped of everything she lived for. The dreams she had, growing up, falling in love, marrying, having children, all vanished. She felt empty—a shell.

She couldn't feel anything as Madara grunted and sweated above her.

_Numb_.

_Empty_.

_Gone_.

She didn't even notice his roar when he came, didn't notice that his seed filled her until she overflowed. Didn't even notice when he left her, lying there alone, still tied and gagged.

Rolling up into a ball as best she could into the grass, curling her knees to her chest, she lay there, giving a vacant stare to a single blade of grass, as if all the other parts of the meadow had burned away.

Hopefully her tears—the cowardly things that came leaking back from the corners of her eyes—would be able to soothe the survivors.

The Lord knew they couldn't soothe her.

.

.

Madara disappeared to the pier.

The numb feeling wasn't gone. It almost seemed to have grown when he saw her, laying there on the ground afterward…

… her eyes dull.

Empty.

He should have felt victorious.

So why was he still so numb, so numb when he'd done the right thing, in teaching her, in showing her his love?

He threw a pebble into the ocean and watched the ripples fold the water. He stared at his folding, unfolding reflection in the water. In a fit of anger, he brutally kicked at it, holding himself by the sides of his head and letting out a scream that was worthy of waking the dead.

.

.

Fugaku knew he'd overslept. But he couldn't help but head to the kitchen first, to grab something to drink before he went out to see her. Pouring himself a cup of water, he sat down at the table, knowing that, without even looking at the clock on the wall, he was _late_.

But he had good reason. He'd been sitting up in his room, searching for some kind of loophole to get out of this dilemma, to try to find a solution without hurting his brother or Mikoto. The only one he could really find was to tell Madara straight out about his feelings—and then make sure that all of them got home without mauling each others' faces.

Madara shouldn't have the truth kept from him; besides, he was strong enough to get over his pride and ego and find another girl to prey on. Right?

He rubbed at his neck, curious of the crick in his neck that hadn't been there before, frowning.

Downing the rest of his water, he took a deep breath and made his way to the front door, carefully to tread softly in the case he woke up Madara.

He closed the door behind him—staring curiously at the porch swing.

She wasn't here.

A small alarm went off in him. She was _always_ here before he was. He'd always lag on later, coming in at least fifteen minutes later to ensure that Madara, if he were to be awake in the middle of the night, wouldn't hear two pairs of feet padding across the floor.

He scanned the meadow, noticing a few patches of bent grass. He let out a breath of relief. She was probably bored—wanted to run around a bit. The fond memory of seeing her dance in the rain dashed through his mind. It brought a quirk to his lips. He followed the path of bent grass, his brow furrowing when he led him toward the willow trees near the backyard.

His heart stopped.

He barely felt the twinge in his legs as he sprinted over to a bundle he saw underneath a willow tree. He let out a shaky, silent breath.

There she lay, curled up tightly into a ball, her mouth gagged. Her hands, dirt caked underneath her fingernails, were bounded behind her back. As he struggled to keep himself from shaking, he saw that her nightgown was ripped straight down the middle, revealing her entire, bare body. Her panties hung from one thigh. Blood caked the patch of hair between her legs and the other thigh. On an ankle, a breast, and a hip were bruises. Her eyes were a dead black that, if it had clouded a room, would make the victims inside the dark room claw against the walls in an attempt to escape. Angry lines were the trails of tears that clawed her face.

"Mikoto."

She stiffened at the sound of her name; through the disarrayed shade of bangs, she saw a tall figure. '_He's come back,_' she thought. She couldn't find the strength to care. To move. '_What more is there to take from me?_'

Fugaku took two more strides—kneeled. Without a word, he pulled her by the shoulders to make her sit up.

She still didn't respond. The only movement she made was to breathe.

"Mikoto," he said again, "can you hear me?"

Silence. She lifted her head to stare at him. '_It's not him_.' She felt like crying, but the tears didn't come. '_Fugaku_…' To answer his question, she lowered her head in a nod. "Yes."

They sat there for a moment, to stare at each other. He raised a hand to touch her face, to make sure she was really here, stopping just an inch before the skin when she stiffened. "I'm not going to hurt you, Mikoto."

For the first time in her life, she doubted him. But as he silently picked her up, holding her in his arms as if he would break her, and walked back to the house with steady, deliberate steps as if he were holding his hand and teaching her how to walk—

—teaching her how to work again.

.

.

He spent the days after caring to her. When they'd gotten back that night, he lay her upon one of the sofas, covered her up and then fell asleep on the other couch nearby. She'd woken up several times in the middle of the night, whimpering from nightmares, sometimes shouting out in her sleep, waking Fugaku, who calmed her down. She never cried.

He managed to make some progress; she was willing to let him place a towelette upon her forehead and brush her bangs out of her eyes.

Although hesitant at first, she was soon able to take the gentle touches without edge, relaxing a bit in his presence, even relishing the couple times he brushed a calloused hand along her cheek and smoothed her hair, pressing herself closer to his gentle touch. But gentle, innocent caresses were as far as she'd allow him. If he'd gotten any closer than she deemed comfortable, she'd shy away, try to bury herself further into the couch.

He'd tell her stories, trying to edge a laugh out of her—but over the course of those days, he couldn't find her smile or hear her laughter.

Without that laughter, that smile, he realized, he felt lost.

Then, during the time of her silence, he realized something else. She was eating more, filling herself with more food. In the mornings, she began to run to the restrooms more often. He'd always stand outside, hearing her dry heaves at the toilet.

"Mikoto," he called.

Before she could answer, she took another heave at the toilet, gagging on her spit. She trembled. Shook her head. No. Impossible. This couldn't happen. Another gag overtook her; she spilled the remaining contents of her stomach into the marble bowl. An almost foreign pressure throbbed behind her eyes.

"I'm coming in." Fugaku barged in, despite her sounds of protest. When he saw her bent over the toilet, staring up at him with wide, fearful eyes, he softened. "Mikoto," he said. "I know what's happening."

She stared at him, then shook her head once. Once more in frantic. In denial. "No," she whispered.

"Yes," he said, taking a step toward her before stopping when he saw her flinch. He lowered his head. "I'm not going to hurt you."

She stared at the toilet bowl.

"You're pregnant."

"No," she said again. Shook her head again. "I can't be."

Something in Fugaku snapped. "Stop it."

She turned to look at him, narrowing her eyes at him as if goading him to continue.

"Stop denying everything," he told her. "I know it happened, I know what Madara did—"

"Stop," she said, warning him.

"—I know that you're scared, that you can't trust me right now—"

"Stop it!" she shouted. The pressure behind her eyes throbbed even worse. "You don't know anything! You didn't go through it, you didn't feel it, you don't even know how I _feel_ right now—"

"That's because you're not letting me in!" he shouted back. "I don't know how it felt," he told her, "but I know that you're hurting. If you keep letting it hurt, it will. If you keep pushing people away, it's going to be lonely."

He'd kneeled, crawling over to her slowly, watching as she trembled every movement he took. He stopped only a foot before her. "I'm tired of not being able to hear you laugh or not see your smile or see you blush like crazy; I'm tired of not being able to help you while you're suffering like this." He seemed to stare straight into her soul—she had to look away. "I'm here for you, Mikoto." He put a hand up to her face to cup her cheek. "I'm not him. Look at me—right now."

She was breathing harshly, still trembling—but when she saw Fugaku's face, she swallowed, forcing herself to calm down. Instead of the crazed, gleaming red eyes, the holes, the gaunt, the pallor, instead of hearing dirty words on repeat, of feeling his grimy hands on her body…

She saw and heard him. His strong jaw. His firm gaze. His blunt words. His large hands.

"Not… Madara."

"That's right," he said, stroking her cheek.

"Fu—Fugaku…"

"Yes." He brushed her bangs out of her face as softly as he could, watching her coal eyes stare up at him, searching for the truth. "It's me." He felt a pressure behind his eyes. His sight seemed to blur. "I'm here for you, Mikoto. It's going to be all right."

Slowly, she felt the pressure behind her eyes disappear. Her vision blurred. Her eyes, once empty, were filled to the brim with tears. Her arms shaking, she took her time in wrapping them around his neck and pressing herself against him, pressing his face against his. When he returned the embrace, she didn't sob; instead, she let the tears flow down her cheeks and dampen his shoulder.

She didn't tremble when he kissed away her tears.

.

.

.

_**Tears**_ are _**words**_ the _**heart**_ **cannot** _express_.

.

.

.

**-xxx-**

After a week of being gone, of running off to a hotel to mindlessly throw himself in the bed of other girls, Madara had come back home to receive the news that Fugaku and Mikoto were to be married after they finished high school.

When he'd seen the smiles on both of their faces, the happiness, he couldn't help but want to punch a wall.

He'd known, without even observing them, that neither Fugaku nor Mikoto had told Otou-sama of what had happened during their time at the country house. Even so, he had asked and was granted permission to move out into his own apartment, still able to go to school by himself (with a loaned car from Otou-sama) and to the company building to stick to his internship hours under his uncle.

All the while, he'd gone through school, eying Mikoto's ever-growing belly with what seemed to be a mixture of disgust and self-lauding.

Even though his brother had invited him to their wedding and their reception, he had refused rather graciously.

He'd see them eventually.

He smirked, looking out of the window of the prime Uchiha company building. However, despite admiring the new, fresh coat of paint on the other buildings in the complex, he focused instead on the phone he had held up to his ear—namely, the conversation—a smug, distorted smirk displayed across his face. He casually told the person on the receiving ends some whimsical formalities, smirking when the man on the other side rejected them, sparking a long line of crafted debate.

'_Itachi's been growing feistier every year_,' he thought after hanging up with Itachi's foreboding comment of "stopping this hide-and-seek game" they'd been playing for the past four years. He couldn't help but think that Fugaku had raised him rather well.

No thanks to that woman. She'd torn the relationship he'd had with his brother apart, ruined his former stake to the company, and tossed him into a confused turmoil. He'd had to suppress the strongest memories to keep himself sane.

He smirked. A woman's role—not only to spread her legs and allow the multiplication of a family, but also to break apart lives.

A woman…

An idea sparked in his mind. A woman to keep Sasuke and Itachi apart…

His disfigured smirk grew like a weed across his face. He knew just the girl.

All she had to do was show up so he could judge how useful she would be in regards to his plan.

**-xxx-**

.

.

.

The **love** _we__cannot__have_ is the **love** that _lasts_ the _**longest**_,  
><em>hurts<em> the _**deepest**_,  
>and <em>feels<em> the _**strongest**_.

.

.

.

They'd gone through the rest of high school—to both of their surprises—quite quietly. Mikoto, although still prone to the occasional nightmare, recovered from her trauma, returning to the smiling, laughing girl as she once was.

The child Mikoto had conceived that fateful night came out the end of senior year, ironically right after the final exams. She couldn't bear the idea of abortion, so she kept the child, telling Otou-sama she'd conceived him during her time at the country house with Fugaku (he didn't question them after that). The school had flocked with rumors, but, with the fearsome Fugaku at her side, she really didn't have any hard times. During her labor, she'd held Fugaku's hand tightly as she cursed every possible cuss word she could find, kissing him after the entire ordeal had finished.

"He's so handsome," she murmured, smiling as the baby coo-ed up at her. The baby had inherited his mother's eyes, his orbs like perfectly round coals. The rest of him—his nose, his strength, and his strange look of profound intelligence—seemed to have come from his father's side.

Madara's.

Fugaku stroked the baby's cheek, a smile on his face when he held his father's large index finger and babbled baby nonsense. "What should we name him?"

She wrinkled her nose when the baby batted at her breast, screaming for some sort of nourishment. When she allowed the baby access to her breast, she held him just as the nurses told her and sighed when he clamped a mouth over her nipple, blushing while Fugaku watched. "I think he should be named _Itachi_," she said. She winced when the baby bit down a little too hard.

Fugaku smirked. "_Weasel_, huh?"

"Yes," she said matter-of-factly, cooing at him with baby nonsense as he continued to feed. "He seems so smart already—to the point where he'd resort to some kind of mischief to get whatever he wants." She smiled up at him. "He'll be our little trouble-maker."

"Itachi," Fugaku said. The image of his little brother, smiling and laughing and calling _nii-san!_, filled his mind. He smiled fondly down at the baby. Their little rascal. "I think that's perfect."

.

.

The wedding day.

They'd managed to endure an hour for the wedding, garbed in the heaviest traditional clothing the world had ever known—and then another three hours for the reception.

Now, the two of them were stranded at the country house for their honeymoon, their little Itachi with them, free to do whatever they wanted for the week—go bike-riding, swimming at the private beach, showing Itachi the wonders of sweets…

… consummating their marriage…

It was that thought that had both of them, after putting baby Itachi to sleep, sitting on the edge of the bed in awkward silence.

She sat there, fidgeting, biting her lip, eying him from the corner of her eyes.

"You know," he said without turning to her, "we don't have to do this." He shifted and placed a hand on Mikoto's, caressing it in silent understanding. "We have a beautiful child. I get to spend the rest of my life with you. There can be nothing more to it than that."

She turned to him and saw that awkward, sideways smile. He was so selfless that it hurt her. She shifted closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder, shifting so that her lips kissed his pulse in his neck. "Thank you, Fugaku."

He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back, turning to place a kiss on her cheek.

And instead, he was surprised to find her lips.

She pressed herself closer to him, shyly edging out her tongue to touch his bottom lip. When he responded, giving her access to his mouth, she made up her mind. She was still scared from what had happened—but…

Her hands clenched in the front of his shirt when he pulled away slightly to press his lips to her cheek, slowly trailing her jaw, to her neck.

… she knew he'd keep her safe. He'd taken the liberty of an entire year and a half to prove it to her.

He pulled away from her, holding her at arm's length, shaking and breathing hard. "Mikoto." His voice was hoarse, a warning undertone coloring her name. His eyebrows were furrowed in frustration and confusion.

She pressed herself closer to him as if trying to meld in to him completely. Her arms held him tight. "It's okay, Fugaku," she told him, looking up at him. "I… I'm still scared." When he looked ready to push her away, she added quickly, "But I feel safe with you. I want to be able to show you that I love you, Fugaku." She brushed a hand against his cheek and gave him a smile. "I don't want you to live without my love."

Fugaku could only stare at her. He cupped her cheek with a large hand. "I've never done this before," he admitted. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," she said. "I know you won't." She had already started to push him slowly onto the mattress. She leaned in for another kiss, lying across his chest as she melded their lips, letting out a small whimper when she felt his hand, emboldened, graze along her back.

He slowly rolled them over, bringing his kisses down along her neck, sucking on her collar bone before he gently pulled her negligee straps down her shoulders to reveal soft, creamy orbs. He stared mesmerized at the peaks before looking back at her face, watching her reaction as he took a soft pink tip into his mouth and sucked.

She blushed seven different shades of pink when she felt his mouth on her breast, feeling a kindling pleasure as he lapped at her nipple. She shivered, a warmth beginning to pool between her legs. Wanting it to go away, she rubbed her thighs together in hopes of quelling the ache, accidentally rubbing against Fugaku's erection.

He groaned and buried his face in the valley of her breasts, breathing hard. He could smell her arousal, her natural female scent. "You drive me insane," he rasped, looking up at her before he claimed her lips. He had to stop himself from shaking when he heard her whimper and press herself to him. He ran his hands down her body, feeling every curve, from her breasts to the flare of her hips.

Instinctively, she spread her legs for him, whimpering for him to alleviate the ache. "Fugaku," she breathed, "Fugaku, Fugaku, _Fugaku_." Her breath hitched when she felt a large finger stretch her.

He watched her throw her head back and moan when he started pumping his finger in and out of her, going at a methodical pace that was driving the both of them crazy. Leaning over her, he pressed a kiss to her lips and added another finger.

She panted, feeling a hard, tense coil curl in her lower loins. Raising her hips, she met him halfway, thrusting onto his fingers with a faster pace than his penetrating fingers. "Please, Fugaku!" she cried.

He was fascinated with her entirety, the beautiful flush of her cheeks, the rhythmic bouncing of her breasts, the desperate way she swiveled her hips, and the way her vagina gleamed at him, her clitoris an angry pink. When the thought of tasting her crossed his mind, he curled his fingers inside of her, hitting a crucial spot, as he leaned down and slowly licked her clit.

She shrieked, her spine bowing, nipples pointed toward the ceiling, and the walls of her core collapsing, squeezing his fingers as she came, coating his hand with her juices. Panting her life out, she tried to bring her breathing under control as she came down from her high, finally opening her eyes to find Fugaku pulling off his shirt.

She blushed when she saw his muscles ripple and when she saw the enormous tent in his pants. Gathering the strength, she slowly pushed herself up, her arms feeling like warm jelly. A smile graced her face when she felt his arms wrap around her midsection to support and pull her up. She sighed, the sleepy smile still on her lips as she stared at his torso in wonder, running his hands along the planes of his chest. She lifted her head up in a gesture for him to kiss her.

Fugaku gladly responded, capturing her lips in a sweet kiss. He groaned when she accidentally rubbed him through his pants. He kept his gaze on her, stared back at her when she bit her lip, as if he was giving her a choice to stop before they went too far. When she slipped a hand into his pants and touched him, he closed his eyes and sighed, resting his forehead on hers. At a hesitant stroke, he couldn't help but kick off his pants, his hands frantic in tossing them off, making her laugh.

She couldn't help but stare. Like the rest of him, it was large, pulsing and hot in her small hand, protruding from a thick nest of black hair. The head was soaked with pre-cum, his tiny slit covered in it. She was so mesmerized with its largeness that she gave a squeeze, slowly rolling her hand down his shaft and relishing the sounds that tore from his throat. She tightened her hold and rolled again, watching as he gritted his teeth and jerked his hips toward her, feeling her face flush at his erotic action.

His eyes were squeezed shut in pleasure as he groaned, holding the girl to him and calling out her name. Panting, he opened his eyes, feeling the quick pace she was setting, and watched her squeeze him. The sight of her tiny fingers wrapped around his shaft, pumping him as she stared up at him was too erotic for him to bear. He placed a hand on hers, still trying to catch his breath as he watched her frantically push him toward release. "Stop, Mikoto," he panted. He gritted his teeth at a surge of pleasure. "I'm—I'm gonna come if you don't stop."

She felt so powerful, able to make this seemingly imposing man like putty in her hands. She loved the way he was so vulnerable with her, baring everything to her, his heart, his body. She gazed up at him with half-lidded eyes. "Then come for me, Fugaku." She whimpered when he kissed her.

He tried to hold himself back, to stop her from touching him, from driving him to the brink of insanity. His hand covered hers on his cock in a feeble attempt to stop her, but it seemed as if he was helping her, guiding her on how to touch him, to bring him to that sweet release. A surge of heat burst through him and he threw his head back—he finally came. He took a shaky breath to still himself, falling back onto the mattress, pulling her with him, smirking when he heard her yelp of surprise.

And when she kissed him, smiled at his gentleness, stroked his chest, he felt himself grow hard again. He wondered how he'd be able to escape her hold after tonight.

As she caressed his lips, letting a whimper or a breathless moan slip out of her every now and then, she felt the proof of his desire rub at her folds, against her clit; she couldn't help but tremble. Breaking their lips apart and sitting up, she stared down at him, the both of them breathing in the silent air.

He grazed his fingers along her hips during the silence, sighing as she moved against him with a slow stroke of her hips. He wanted her so bad, but he needed to make sure. He laced their hands together. "Are you sure, Mikoto?"

She bit her lip, and for a moment, he thought she had reached her limit. But as she lifted herself up and took his member in her hands and placed it at her entrance, she smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

And then, she sunk down onto him, listening to his strained groan, gasping when she stretched to accommodate for his size, a task that had her squeezing his hand until it nearly shattered. But when she finally adjusted, she began to move, setting a soft, slow pace. She bit her lip at how good it felt to be filled by him.

Fugaku watched her from below, loving the feel of her surrounding him in liquid fire, loving the way she enjoyed herself, throwing herself toward him as her hips moved a bit faster. It drove him insane to see her reaching for that perfect bliss, trying to do all the work. Sitting them both up, he held her by the hips and swiveled his, meeting her halfway.

She cried out when he hit a spot inside her that made her see stars, burying her face into his neck. "Oh, _Kami_, Fugaku," she said, trying to quicken the pace so she could feel that immense pleasure again. But as she tried to go faster, he held her hips tighter, making her cry out in protest as he went devilishly slow.

"I want you to say my name like that again," he rasped into her ear as he nibbled her earlobe. One of his hands trailed between them and slowly rubbed her sensitive nub.

At that contact, she tightened her grip on him and sobbed at the teasing way he rocked his hips against hers, at the feel of his finger teasing her clit. "O-Ohh—o-oh, Fugaku." Her breath hitched when his hips jerked.

He took in a shaky breath, sweat dripping from his brow. He'd nearly lost control when she'd said his name that time, almost gave into her. But he wanted to hear her say it. "What do you want me to do, Mikoto?" he asked her, slowly lowering her down to the bed.

She cried out when he jerked his hips again, and felt him touch that sensitive spot inside of her.

"Look at me, Mikoto."

She turned to him in all her glory, her puffed, over-kissed lips, her flushed cheeks, her bouncing breasts, half-open eyes. At another stroke of his hips, she couldn't keep them open, squeezing her eyes shut at the immense pleasure. She felt that pressure coil in her abdomen again. "A-aaa-ah… Fugaku."

He pressed her into the mattress, watching at her as he continued with those strained strokes of his hips. He panted. "Tell me what you want, Mikoto."

She was taking uneven breaths, goosebumps adorning her skin as sweat covered her body in a sheen. It took her a while to answer, to overcome the pleasure he gave her before she could open her eyes and stare right back at him. Then, she answered with a breathless voice: "Your hand."

The arm that wasn't supporting his weight trailed its hand up her body to lace with hers. "What else?" he asked her, still moving against her. The pace made her insane, her back arching just so to brush her nipples against his chest. She shuddered, jerked, and writhed with him, crying out his name, all the while, trying to keep her gaze with him, trying to move along with him.

"Faster, Fugaku." She bit her lip but she couldn't stop the cry the tore from her throat. She rolled her hips upward. "Oh, _Kami_, please."

They danced, meeting each other halfway with their hips as they breathed each other's air, hands laced tightly together as they kept their gazes locked. The whimpers and groans had melded together, indistinguishable.

She took in a shaky breath and sobbed out a decree of pleasure. The man she loved so dearly blurred in her vision. Tears—ones that he struggled to kiss away in his throes of passion—dripped down her cheeks.

_This_ was what making love felt like.

She clung to him, kissed him, and held on tight when she finally felt the climax explode throughout her entire body, traveling up her bowing spine to dance around her mind, pushing out a silent scream, her entire vision blotching into whiteness.

And Fugaku felt it so hard, felt her grip on him tighten tremendously—and he couldn't hold back. Roaring out her name, he spilled his seed inside of her, trembling as a snowy whiteness blackened his vision. He collapsed onto her.

They lay there for a moment, trying to catch their breaths until finally, Fugaku rolled away onto his back, his eyes captivated in the sight of the woman next to him.

Her midnight hair was rumpled in their love-making, her cheeks and body flushed and glowing in the moonlight as she caught shaky breaths. When her eyes finally fluttered open, she smiled at him sleepily and rolled over to him to lay her head upon his chest.

He stroked her cheek and held her to him. "Wow," he murmured.

She smiled at him and let out a shaky sigh. "Wow," she said in agreement. Goosebumps prickled her skin when she felt his hand graze the small of her back. She yelped in surprise when he rolled her over and buried his face in her neck. "Fugaku, wha—"

"You always interrupt me when I'm about to talk," he told her. He leaned down to kiss her cheek. "I was about to tell you I love you," he murmured into her cheek, "but I guess…"

She stared at him with wide, doe-like eyes—torn among tackling him, kissing his brains out, or crying.

She ended up doing all three.

.

.

.

_It_ _**hurts**_ to let go, but sometimes, _it __**hurts**_ more to hold on.

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.

.

Madara could only stare back at his brother from across the desk. The desk that _he_ had sat at for the past few years, the desk that Otou-sama and Oji-san had entrusted to him before this mess came along. His things, however, were packed into cardboard boxes; he was to be shipped out before the next twenty-four hours.

"Congratulations on inheriting the company, _nii-san_." The childish light had gone from his eyes. He had lost everything now to the person he hoped he would never have to fight.

He cursed how Otou-sama was forcing _him_ to be the one to push Madara out of the company doors, to exile him. Despite everything Madara did, it was _hard_—he felt as if he couldn't do it. Gathering himself, he closed his eyes and mentally shook his head. It had to be done. "Hn," he merely replied before swiveling to the large window with his chair. He couldn't look his brother in the eye.

"H-Hey! Don't do that, that's rude, _nii-san_!"

"Hn."

Of all people, Madara had never thought that his brother would be the one to throw him out. A bubbling of frustration grew in the pit of his stomach. What was happening? Why was he doing this to him? "Why do you even want this company? Huh, Fugaku?" When he didn't answer, he shouted, "Look at everything you have for once, you big—" He stopped himself. No. Name calling wouldn't get him anywhere.

"Big what?" Fugaku asked him as he swiveled around. He honestly wanted to hear what his little brother thought of him now as he was ripping everything right out from under his feet. It would make him feel better to know his brother despised him because of what he was doing; it would let him feel more at peace with himself if Madara just cursed him. "Big what, Madara?" he goaded. "Otou-sama always taught us to finish our sentences."

At his little brother's silence, he closed his eyes, concentrating on his next words. Madara needed to hate him for this. He needed some peace. Some closure. "What would _you_ do with this company, Madara? What use would you have for it?" He tried not to grit his teeth. "The company would only decline in your hands."

The next thing he knew, Madara's hands slammed against his desk, an echoing crack resonating throughout the entire room. "What use? Fugaku, look all around you! _You _have no use for this! You have so many things that I _don't_ _have_!"

If Fugaku had looked him in the eye at that moment, he would have seen pure, unadulterated fury.

It would have torn and melted his heart.

"You have Mother and Father's blessings—"

_No, Madara—they've always loved you._

"—you have charisma, people _love_ you—"

_You have no idea how much people love _**you**.

"—you even have—" And that was where he stopped himself. Stopped himself because he didn't want to scream her name for the umpteenth time in his life.

But even without him saying her name, Fugaku understood. He swiveled around again until he could face his brother, unaware that his emotionless mask that all Uchiha men wore had slipped off his face for a mere second and that Madara had seen his _pain, regret, sadness_—and then, when he'd slipped it back on, nothing at all.

"I'm sorry," Fugaku said. He'd expected another fiery rampage, more curses from Madara-

But instead, his little brother, the life draining out of his eyes once more, nodded listlessly before he took his boxes, walked out of the office, and trudged to the elevator.

.

.

Five years later, a new addition to the family was made. Five-year-old Itachi was ecstatic with the thought of a new little brother; when the baby and Okaa-san came home, he was already up to her, clinging to her skirt in a silent plea to hold his baby brother.

Despite Fugaku's protests, Mikoto smiled at him and held out the newborn to his older brother.

"He's so tiny," Itachi had said, staring down at him in wonder.

Mikoto brushed the small thatch of black hair on the baby's head. "You were once, too, Itachi-kun."

Itachi stared up at his okaa-san. "What'd you guys name him?"

Fugaku pushed himself off the doorframe and approached them, sitting himself down. "His name is Sasuke."

Itachi turned to his otou-san. "Like the legendary samurai?"

"Exactly," Fugaku told him, patting the child on the head and giving him a twirk of his lips in response to his protest. "Because he's going to grow up to be a strong boy. Just like you."

Looking down at his baby brother, Itachi smiled. "Even if he does," he said to his parents, "I'll still have a lot to teach him." When baby Sasuke began to cry out because of all of the attention, Itachi tried to hush him. "It's okay, Sasuke. Your _aniki_ will protect you."

_A warm pat to the head to calm his tears. "Aniki will protect you, Madara. Don't worry."_

Fugaku felt pressure behind his eyes, his vision blurring until all he could see were the listless eyes of his little brother. He felt that burn of self-hate all over again, the frustration that boiled in the pit of his stomach. He had tried to speak to Otou-sama, to let him let go of the company, to find some loophole so that Madara could have _something_.

But he couldn't; the pig-headed man seemed to look right through his pleas as if he had never said anything.

He had failed him.

And now, because of him, because he couldn't protect him like he had promised, Madara was broken.

He lowered his gaze and buried his face in his hands.

"Fugaku—?"

"Otou-san? Otou-san, why are you crying?"

.

.

.

**Relationships** are like _**glass**_.  
><em>Sometimes it's better<em> to _leave them_ _**broken**_  
>than to <em><span><strong>hurt yourself<strong>_ _putting it back together._

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.

**-xxx-**

"I have it all together," the pink-haired girl told him confidently.

He couldn't help but scoff at her—this pink Teletubbie, denser than a black hole of outer space, thought she figured _him_ out? What a bluff. "That's impossible. No one as _slow_ you could figure anything out."

She tried to keep herself together, oh, how she tried, but the emotion inside her was stirring and at the last comment, she exploded in a fury of messy emotion. "Slow? _Slow?_ Is that what you call me, Madara?"

She walked up to him, staring him right in his bleeding eyes with her determined emerald eyes. "If I was slow, would I have been able to know that this company was rightfully _theirs_? That you're just a _selfish_, _self-centered_, _overbearing_ _monster_ who doesn't know anything about family, that all you know about is _manipulation_ and _cruelty_?"

Madara wanted to shake her. _She_ was wrong—he knew all about family. He knew how they could tear you apart into a billion shattered pieces of glass with a simple grunt; he knew that they would always care for their lives before others—so why should he _ever_ care about the ridiculous notion of _family_?

_Family_ was the epitome of "_manipulation_" and "_cruelty_."

Never him.

"You knew that Sasuke would keep me from speaking to Itachi, and that was why you let him make his move. You saw that I was a girl—and that automatically made it, in your eyes, another opportunity to keep your plan perfectly foolproof, keeping me away from Itachi and keeping Sasuke in the dark while you slowly took over the company for yourself."

At her revelation, he narrowed his eyes, scolding himself. This was his most devastating miscalculation ever.

The girl mirrored the Uchiha smirk with her own, as if to voice his thoughts. "But the one thing that you didn't anticipate was _me_."

He decided to pull one last attempt. "You can't do anything about it."

She merely stared straight at him and jingled her keys as she walked to the driver's seat. "Watch me."

"Is that a threat?" he goaded, smirking. No one had threatened him in a long time, and a long time wasn't about to end now. He knew she wouldn't have the guts.

But his miscalculations had piled up, forced history to repeat itself. As he watched her smile, her green eyes lighting up in the rain, he expected her to speak out of her bluff, to say she was "just kidding!" and be over it. Instead, she replied with a simple word that threw him into a pit of shattered memories: "Absolutely."

_Mikoto_. Her name throbbed through his head as he staggered to her window, as he punched through the glass and managed to knock the girl out, as he grabbed her car keys and giggled with glee—even as he struggled to keep himself from shaking as he drove his car, nearly running every red light in an effort to get to the old house that held all of his broken memories.

_Mikoto-Mikoto-Mikoto-Mikoto-_Mikoto-MIKOTO-_**MIKOTO**_—

"_Wait!_" he heard his former self call to her. "_Where are you going?_"

"_To tell Fugaku!_" She had run down the hall with his confessions of greed and obsession toward the elevator that would carry her to her husband's nest

"_Is that a threat?_" he'd called to her as he chased her down the hall. He'd thought she would give in, thought she would deny it in cowardice.

But she broke his heart with her courage, the beautiful way she faced him with renewed strength and the tragic sound of a single word.

_Absolutely_.

And she had disappeared into the elevator, leaving him in a psychological dirty heap as he prepared himself for his older brother's wrath.

**-xxx-**

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.

.

When my _absence_ **doesn't** _alter_ your _**life**_, then my _presence_ **has no meaning** in _**it**_.

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.

Fugaku buried his face into the bridge of his hands.

He'd known that Madara had always wanted the company—he'd known that ever since Madara had devoted himself to the grueling internship with Oji-san. After going through _that_ he wouldn't doubt that Madara would want to take the company away from the children. He'd known that Madara was in love with Mikoto.

Yes. Of course he'd known… he'd known everything from the start.

But…

_"Nii-san, nii-san, nii-san!" Madara bounded up to his older brother and tugged him by the hand, despite the wavering scowl on his brother's face. Fugaku gave up on keeping up the act and just let out a breath—and smiled. _

… he just couldn't, didn't want to believe it.

"Consider it a warning, Madara, that if you ever come near my children, my company, or my wife, you _will_ face grave consequences." He narrowed his eyes, knowing that to Madara it seemed like a scowl of contempt—in actuality, he was scowling and scolding himself, hating himself for doing this to him.

The remainder of Madara's heart broke—and it showed in his face. The utter, emotional-turned-physical pain managed to scrunch his eyebrows, bite his bottom lip, widen his eyes—and then completely disappear as if he had deleted it completely. A smirk began to grow like a weed across his lips, untamed and disfigured. "_Will_ I, now, dearest brother Fugaku?" The empathy and humor had finally bled out of him, and a fiend-like glint took over his eyes. He leaned in toward Fugaku. "Hm? Are you really planning to threaten your only brother, Fugaku?"

Fugaku closed his eyes. _No_, he wanted to say. _No—I never wanted to do this to you. Ever. _He forced the pressure behind his eyes to cease. _I'm so sorry, Madara._ His hands trembled as he struggled to control himself.

At his silence, Madara sneered. "What's the matter, _aniki_? No words to say to your dearest little brother, eh?" He skipped backwards, starting toward the double doors, making sure to cock his head to the side to ensure that Fugaku could see the brokenness in his eyes. "Well brother, we'll be seeing each other soon enough. _Ja_, _nii-san_!" With a mock salute, he walked out of the office.

"Oji-san?"

He turned and saw little Sasuke. "Sasuke-kun," he said with a fake smile. He hated how the child looked like _her_. "What are you doing here?"

"Is it true that you're leaving?"

Madara kneeled down to the little boy of five. "Well, Madara-oji's not going to be seeing you for a while," he told him. "He's going to be moving to somewhere." He stared at the little boy for a moment. "Who told you, Sasuke-kun?"

Before he could answer, Sasuke heard someone call him. He ran over to a ten-year-old boy. "_Aniki_!"

Madara eyed Itachi. He could see some of himself in the boy, see a strange intelligence far too early for his age. He eyed him as the older boy poked the younger one in the middle of his forehead in an affectionate gesture before he turned his gaze to Madara.

"_Konichiwa, Oji-san_," Itachi said. He returned his gaze with a fierceness he must have inherited from that woman. "I hear you're leaving soon."

Madara gave the child a small smile. "Yes. At the moment, actually."

"_Aniki_, Madara-oji is going to bring us back some treats, right?" asked Sasuke as he looked up at his brother.

Itachi gently pushed him away. "Sasuke-kun, _aniki_ must speak to Oji-san privately at the moment, okay? Go find kaa-san." When the little boy ran off, he turned to his uncle. "Oji-san," he said, "I don't know why Otou-san is pushing you out like this, but you must understand that he still accounts you as his brother."

Madara didn't say anything. '_What a load of bull._'

"Please do not do anything that you will regret, Oji-san." He started to walk off in the direction he had sent his brother before he stopped to look over his shoulder. "Oh, and Oji-san, I would appreciate it greatly if you do not speak to Sasuke-kun anymore."

Madara watched as the child walked away. He stood there for a moment, taking in the child's insolence before he entered the elevator. Clicking his tongue at the receptionist as he walked through the lobby and earning an extraordinary blush, he took to finding his car in the parking lot. He slipped inside and revved the engine, a dark shadow overtaking his face.

His brother pushing him away… that child pushing him even further. It seemed too much for him. "They won't get away with this," he said to himself, running through a red light. "I'll make sure of it—I'll show them not to mess with _me_!"

'_Nii-san was supposed to be there for me—she was supposed to love me, to be _mine_, but they betrayed me—they _all_ betrayed me!_'

He didn't acknowledge the frustrated trails of tears that ran down his face.

.

.

Mikoto stroked his inner leg, biting her lip in excitement when she heard him groan. "Fugaku," she purred, "just think about it." She leaned into him as she pressed herself closer, her arms draped around his neck. Her lips were at a teasing distance—just a centimeter away, yet still so far. "It can be just you"—she trailed a hand down his neck—"and me"—gave a small massage to his shoulder as he groaned. When he tried to lean down to capture her lips, she pulled her face _just_ out of reach.

Again.

"_If_," she added, re-draping the once wandering arm and smiling at his growl, "you let your staff off for a week or so."

"Which is it?" he asked huskily as he trailed his lips down her neck.

She smiled, stretching her neck to give him more access. "Mm…" She shivered when he sunk his teeth into her sensitive spot. "Give or take—if you get tired, we can always go home early…" Before he could respond to her, she stared up at him with half-lidded eyes. "Or," she drawled, massaging his weak spot at the back of his neck and listening to him groan, "we could always _extend_ the trip."

"Hm…" He kissed her. "That sounds like a plan. And the kids?"

Mikoto snorted. "Please—I know you're planning to send Itachi to go on that business trip for you for the week, but a babysitter for Sasuke? He'd be _insulted_. He's fourteen, Fugaku. He can take care of himself."

"Hn," Fugaku muttered in reply.

She smiled, pinched his cheek, and laughed when he grumbled. "So it's settled then. We'll take a week off to the country house."

"Just shut up and let me kiss you."

She did.

.

.

Madara had trailed them to the country home after hearing from the pretty receptionist about Fugaku giving the entire staff a week off. It was an itching intuition that led him there—and he was right. He watched as she ran through the verdant meadows as she pulled him by the hand up the porch steps. His gaze darkened when they kissed.

'_They ruined me,_' he seethed. '_Betrayed me—everything was supposed to be _mine.' He had stayed in the darkness for nine years, plotting and planning and waiting for the right opportunity to strike. With an opportunity like this, everything could fall into place.

.

.

.

**You hurt me** _more than I deserve_, how can you be so _**cruel**_?  
><strong>I love you<strong> _more than you deserve_, why am I such a _**fool**_?

.

.

.

**-xxx-**

He could hear their screams all over again—her screams, his cries, both of them telling him to _stop, please, just stop!_

Another wave hit him like a brilliant tsunami, destroying his senses and coating his hands with their blood.

He needed to wipe it off. He told himself it would come off afterward. They would come off his hands, they _had _to—

_Mikoto-Mikoto-Mikoto-MIKOTO-__**MIKOTO**__—_

—else what would he do but keep those images in his head forever?

_'They'll wash off—they'll wash off.'_

But as he continued his confrontation with Itachi, his thoughts, mind, senses flickered between hearing his biological son speak of his past and hearing their devastation.

The blood piled on.

**-xxx-**

.

.

.

_Love_ is like _**heaven**_, but it can **hurt** like _**hell**_.

.

.

.

He'd followed them on their drive along their private beach with his rented motorcycle, his tools on his person. He had ripped off and melted down the license plate to create his weapon of choice before he followed them down the road. The private beach stretched out five miles in each direction—enough time to stop them halfway and make way with his plan.

He had studied the way Fugaku drove, the art of accidents, the art of magic even to make his plan fool-proof and able to trick the police into thinking that it was just another car accident.

And so, calculating that Fugaku and Mikoto would drive up around the bend in approximately two minutes, he cast off his black leather shirt, being sure to make sure his blood red shirt gleamed enough to catch their attention. Pulling his bike up to the edge of the road, he kept his helmet on to shield his face and hair and stuck his thumb out as if to hitchhike. He switched the voice modifier on in his helmet and waited.

Two minutes later, their car appeared from around the bend. Madara knew that Fugaku liked to drive at a slower pace than most people in order to capture the scenery, so it wasn't hard to catch his attention with his thumb, red shirt, and the old bike.

Fugaku had thought about driving past him—after all, it was getting dark faster than normal and the fact that a stranger was out hitchhiking near the private beach seemed suspicious to him.

"Hey," Mikoto said, "looks like the dude's bike is broken." She held onto her husband's arm. "Stop for him, Fugaku."

"Are you kidding me, Mikoto?" he asked her as he rolled his eyes. "It's almost night and we haven't even gotten back yet."

She glared at him.

Sighing, he grumbled something about "women demanding they wear the pants" and smirked when she smacked his arm playfully as he pulled over and stuck his head out the window.

"Excuse me, sir, but are you lost?"

Madara let his hand down. "Well," he said, glad that his voice sounded a couple octaves higher than his normal voice—it made him sound like a teenager. And for that, he was thankful. "Well, I was actually riding along to take a shortcut home, but my motorbike broke down."

Mikoto leaned over to the driver's window. "Would you like a lift?"

Madara smirked inside his helmet. This was almost _too_ easy. "That," he said, bending over to grab his bike, "would be fantastic."

At a nudge and wordless plea from Mikoto, Fugaku got out of the car to help him put his bike in the back of the car. With the efforts of both men, they got the bike into the trunk. He kept his eyes on the stranger. "You want me to take that helmet for you?" Fugaku offered.

Madara retreated. He put his hands up in protest. "Oh no, dude, I'm fine. Thanks, though." He eyed the sky—it was dark enough now. He nodded to himself. "I'll take it off in the car."

Fugaku grunted and returned to the driver's seat, his intuition ringing alarms in his head. The stranger's voice didn't sound normal—as if it were some kind of computer program. As he continued to drive, he wondered: why would this man want to disguise his voice, unless—?

He pulled in a sharp breath. _No._

At the same moment, Mikoto had thought the same thing—that voice wasn't natural; what was this guy trying to hide? Then the realization hit her too.

Just as he turned to Mikoto to tell her of his revelation, he had chanced a glance into his rearview mirror him—and saw the eyes of a bloody fiend. His hands lost control of the wheel in his shock. The car swerved and the tires screeched as they abused and scraped the concrete.

He'd tried to call out to Mikoto, but the last thing he heard before he felt his head hit the side of the window was her calling out for him.

.

.

Fugaku woke up, the left temple of his head throbbing immensely. He groaned and closed his eyes, about to open his mouth to tell Mikoto about his odd dream of stopping for a hitchhiker who turned out to be his brother…

His eyes snapped open at the sound of a chuckle. Fugaku swallowed soundlessly, pulling in a shaky breath as he turned his eyes toward his window.

There, straddling his motorbike with his helmet underneath his arm as he stared back at him, was Madara. His hair had gotten slightly longer, still as spiky as it used to be when they were once adolescents, his face longer, his entire body leaner. But that wasn't what shocked him the most. Madara's eyes, once a fascinating shade of light brown, seemed to have taken the dye of his blood red shirt. The irises gleamed like fire—

It was horrifying.

Behind him, he heard Mikoto groan; he turned to her, cringed at the sight of blood caking her forehead. When he tried to move toward her to help her—he didn't know how, but he had the urge to reach out to her—his seatbelt and pain held him fast. He winced, knowing that his ribs were either broken or bruised.

"My, my, _nii-san_," Madara said as he shook his head, his bottom lip thrust out in a pout. "You and Mikoto-chan don't look too good." He put his chin onto the head of his bike and stared at his brother with those eyes. "You know, Fugaku-_nii_, I didn't expect you to lose control of the wheel. Hm—surprised to see me after so many years, ne?"

Mikoto, despite the pain, glared past Fugaku's shoulder at him, heaving when she felt her jaw protest.

Madara waved past Fugaku's shoulder. "Hello again, Mikoto-chan! I've missed you dearly." A mock smile graced his lips as he hummed. "You know, this accident makes my job _much_ easier." He gave a damsel-in-distress sigh. "Otherwise I would have had to have created an accident scene myself. 'Course, this gave me a couple of nicks, too," he said, rubbing at a bruise on his cheek and gesturing to the cut on his lip, "but when you wanna take something, you gotta give a little, too."

Mikoto's eyes had widened. "Oh my God…" She tried to control her breathing. Turned her face downward. A small choking sound came from her lips.

Fugaku, gritting his teeth from the pain, managed to reach over and cover her hand with his in order to comfort her. He squeezed it, making her look at him, letting her see the determination in his eyes.

Madara made a gagging noise as he watched their silent exchange. "Oh, _yuck_." He wrinkled his nose. "I bet it some of that _'Even if we do die by his hands, at least we die together_' shit." He reached through the window and placed a comforting, gloved hand on Fugaku's shoulder, ignoring the way he stiffened. "How _touching_."

"Madara," Fugaku said, watching his brother, "don't do this."

Madara returned an ironic smile. "Why the hell not? I've got nothing to lose, thanks to you and that bitch over there." His eyes glinted. "With you out of the picture, I get everything back. You cheated—I'm the rightful winner."

"I didn't cheat, Madara. You have to understand—I was doing it for a reason." He didn't flinch when he felt Madara's fingers wrap tightly around his neck. "I had tried to hold myself back for you—and I know what I did was wrong." He knew Mikoto's face had fallen at his words, so he squeezed her hand.

Madara shook his head, his jaw tightening. "Shut up. The hell you know what you did wrong."

"I know I had stolen your place—but you have to understand, I didn't _want_ it." He had closed his eyes, hoping that Madara could hear him. "I could've lived with just Mikoto, to let you have the company, but Otou-sama—"

"Shut up!"

Her eyes widened with horror. "Wait, no, Madara—don't do it!" She panicked when she saw him lean into the window. "_Stop!_"

He couldn't hear her. With a quick hand, he grabbed Fugaku's neck and slammed him face-first into the steering wheel. A satisfying crack of his neck under his hand and his front skull blended with the sound of the car horn.

Mikoto screamed. "_Fugaku_!" She tried to lunge for him, but the seatbelt and the pain in her chest held her back like a pair of brutal arms. She shook her head and sobbed, her shoulders shaking. The image of his quick and brutal murder replayed in her mind over and over—the blood that ran down his forehead, the limp neck. "Oh, Fugaku, _Kami_, why…?"

She jerked her head at Madara, fighting against the belt and the pain that held her to her seat. "What did you _do_, Madara? Why would you do that to him? He was your _brother_, your fucking brother!"She sobbed and raved. "_You bastard_!" She bared her teeth at him. "God damn you to _hell_!"

His eyes darkened. She wasn't aware of her statement, how wrong it was. '_No, Mikoto_,' he thought as he approached the other side. '_God is now damning _you_ to hell._'

**.**

Madara limped toward the blur—the blur that congregated into a tall figure, his jaw broad, his eyes dark brown, his hair long. "Fugaku," he hissed, raising the hand with the gun, the pistol unknowingly pointed at his biological son.

Itachi watched, his eyes widening slightly. '_He's hallucinating…_'

"Fugaku, _you bastard_!" he shrieked, his face contorted into fury, his head lolling on one shoulder as he stared at the man before him. He dissolved into a fit of choked, crazed laughter. This man took her away from him, took _everything _away from him—he deserved to _die_. The remnants of a distorted smirk were messy on his face, one of his eyes still flickering dangerously in the fading light. "You spoiled brat—always got what you want."

He cocked his gun for the third time. "You even took _her_ away from me." The handgun shook violently. "I'm going to… to…"

**.**

In her fit of fury, she didn't notice him approach her until he had opened her door. She tried to kick at him, throwing curse after curse at him when he wouldn't budge.

Madara _tsk_-ed at her. "Now, now, Mikoto, didn't Fugaku teach you to use your tongue wisely, hmm?" The sarcastic smile on his face died when she spat at him.

"Fuck you, you asshole." She was breathing hard, her hair tousled about. She cringed at the pain in her chest, but quickly brought up her resolve. "Don't you _dare_ patronize me." The tears ran down her face again, leaving their malicious trail.

"Come now, Mikoto," he cooed, trying to grab her chin in his hand. He merely held her tighter when she tried to pull away. "Don't you remember the night we shared underneath that willow tree? Didn't you feel any love?"

Her entire being trembled, her eyes growing wide and her lungs growing weak as she recalled it. Oh, _Kami_. She closed her eyes and tried to calm down. "Don't you think," she began, "don't you _ever dare_ to believe that with Fugaku gone—don't you think that I'll _ever_ love you." Her bottom lip trembled as she uttered out her last sentence. "I would rather die."

He didn't think she would manage to do it—his heart, the pieces, felt as if they had squeezed out every last bit of drop they ever had.

And to Mikoto, who could see the evidence, noticed that his irises seemed to gleam five times as red.

Another misshapen smirk overtook his lips. "Your wish is my command, dearest." Reaching into his person, he took out the knife he had fashioned from the torn-off license plate and spun it around his finger once before he sunk it into her thigh.

**.**

"No…" Madara lowered his gun. Hyperventilation attacked him once more. "_No_! She'll get mad at me; she'll _hate_ me." Turning around slowly, the hand that held the gun fell limply to his side. He walked toward the edge of the cliff, staring off into the red vermillion sun that matched his eyes.

"You killed them, didn't you?" Itachi pressed.

The old man didn't answer. His lower lip was trembling, and every second, his eyes widened a bit, revealing the whites bit by bit. His mind trembled with him, flashing images of her with that face of an angel, her face pointed toward the ceiling with her mouth parted. She would have looked as if she were sleeping had it not been the rivers of blood that flowed from her limbs and torso.

Madara slowly let his gaze travel to his hands. The colors were all so distorted—_why was the blood still there?_ After all these years, why could he still wash it _off_? He turned his hands over—the red liquid covered his hands—they were _everywhere_; oh, _Kami_, he could feel it even dripping on his face, burning through his skull.

"Why won't it leave me? Why won't it just _disappear_?"

Itachi stared at his uncle's hands—they were clean.

"Oh, _Kami_, what have I _done_?" His hands clamped his head again as he tried to push away the overwhelming screams that were flooding him—_her screams, __**her screams**_—they were all he could hear.

He was _drowning_.

**.**

Mikoto shrieked when he dragged the knife down her collar bone, toward her breast, tearing through tissue and grazing bone.

His eyes were glued to her skin, fascinated by the way her blood coated his knife and stained her skin.

"Please, stop," she begged him, the tears dripping down her chin. She had lost all of her courage, all of her hope, her dignity—he had broken her again. "_Onegai_… stop, Madara."

"What happened to the –_kun_?" he taunted.He pulled the knife out of her, relished the sound of her yelp and licked the tip of the knife, tasting her blood. He watched as she flinched when he pressed the flat blade against the side of her breast, trailing the cold, metallic thing around it. He admired how round her breast was with her bra, the number of cuts he had graced upon her thighs and arms. He had yet to scrape her face, but he had to stop himself—after all, it would have been a waste to ruin it right then and there.

He looked up at her violently shaking form as she tried to cope with the pain and smirked. "You know, Mikoto-chan," he said, the sound of his voice forcing her to look at him, "I've always thought that this kind of punishment for you was symbolic—the irony to have you die from physical pain by my hand, just as I have suffered emotional pain from _yours_."

She tried to quell her tears, forcing herself to concentrate on something other than the pain. She coughed, tasting metallic, coppery blood. "You're sick."

He hummed in somewhat of an agreement. "Maybe so," he said as he parted from her, wiped the excess blood off his knife onto her seat, and sprayed his knife with cleaner away from the car. "I'd like to call it an… _appreciation_ for dramatic irony." Walking up to the front of the car and flexing the power gloves he had on, he gave a swift punch to the front window.

At the shattering of the glass, Mikoto reared and struggled to keep her mouth shut in order to keep glass from flying into her mouth. The glass that had embedded into her skin made the task hard, as if goading for her to accept some of their cousins into her throat. She choked out something related to a sob. _Kami_, it hurt so bad—she could feel her blood dripping from her, felt herself growing dizzier and dizzier each moment. She took in another breath of air, feeling a cold sweat settle upon her forehead. She wanted to vomit.

"Well then, Mikoto-chan," Madara murmured darkly as he returned to her, biting her torn shoulder, "I do believe this is good-bye."

Summoning all of her strength and the remainder of her resolve, she reached a shaky hand out and cupped his cheek. She was breathing heavily—she felt her strength sapping away, her body screaming for her to give up and take one last deep breath so she could take a nice sleep.

But she wanted to complete Fugaku's thoughts to Madara—to show him what he didn't understand.

She had managed to catch his attention—at first, all she could do was stare at him with the hate and despair she felt toward him when he had killed Fugaku. But slowly as she willed herself to push away all those poisonous emotions, she stared at Madara softly, as if he was one of her own boys. She felt a pressure behind her eyes as she thought of Fugaku, of returning home. She couldn't speak because of the pain. She couldn't stop the tears that flowed down her cheeks. She barely managed to take a gurgled breath as she stared down at him and gave him a shaky smile in hopes he would understand.

And with that gentle smile, she relaxed—closed her eyes.

And let the darkness and the light swallow her whole.

**.**

Madara trembled from the memories. He fell to his knees. His arms rested on either side of him as his wide eyes stared up into the now dark, starry sky. "Mikoto…" He spoke her name softly as if in prayer.

The tears that should have been shed long ago sprang to his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. Madara didn't acknowledge them. "Mikoto… Fugaku…" The grip on his gun tightened.

He didn't notice Itachi stiffen.

Standing up on staggered knees, the old Uchiha stood. Pivoted on his heel like he had done so many times before. And faced his son.

The son she bore for him—the son they raised for him—

It was all for him.

His eyes were crazed, red from the blood on his hands from past acts. The age on his face was prominent, pushing him forward at least twenty years. He no longer resembled an arrogant, greedy uncle in search of easy money by stealing from his nephews; no.

He was merely a tired, old soul—one who had done and seen so many cruelties and evil deeds in life that he was sure God would never forgive him.

But Madara didn't want His forgiveness.

He looked up at the skies, as if he wanted to count the stars. "Fugaku… Mikoto…" he murmured once more. "I wonder… if I'll see you up there." A small delirious smile. "Will I become a star, too?"

No, he thought to himself as he raised the gun to his head. He wouldn't become a star like them—for they were angels God had given to him, angels from which he had cruelly taken their wings, broke them until they were incapacitated.

He had never given any thought to why he had done it, perhaps to soothe his ego, to bind the both of them to Earth so he could raise himself up as a god.

Or, perhaps it was to keep them beside him, afraid they would take to their wings and fly away, to leave him in a pool of stagnant despair.

But he knew now. He knew he had mistreated them, failed them.

But if he ended it now, he would redeem himself.

Yes.

His finger tugged at the trigger. He closed his eyes—

"_Oji-san, stop!_"

—faced the stars and gave a genuine smile—

"_Oji-san!_"

—before he pulled the trigger and disappeared into a flash of painful, bright white.

.

.

.

"_Nii-san, nii-san, nii-san! I want to go home." He took his brother's hand. "Can I, can I?"_

_Can you take me home?_

A smile. "_Hai_," he said. "Let's go home."

**Another hand took hold of his. She smiled, a pure beauty. "Together."**

.

.

.

_Here lies Uchiha Madara  
>Strong believer of justice<br>Happy-go-lucky genius  
>Brother of Uchiha Fugaku,<br>Uchiha Mikoto  
>Forever <em>_**loved**__, forever __treasured__,  
><em>_**Forever**__**forgiven**__._

.

.

.

To _**laugh**_ often and _**love**_ much,  
>To <em><strong>appreciate<strong>_ _beauty_,  
>To <em><strong>find<strong>_ _**the**_ _**best**_ _in others_,  
>To <em><strong>give<strong>_ _one's self_…  
><em><strong>this<strong>_is to have **succeeded in ****love**.

.

.

.

**-xxx-**

_**Review.**_

~annee.


End file.
